


A Light That Never Goes Out

by Man Over Bot (Manniness)



Series: Necessary Sacrifice [3]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: Android Rights, John POV, M/M, So much shit hits the fan OMG, over the wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 54,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Man%20Over%20Bot
Summary: 494.The first time John sees the numbers spray painted on a shadowed section of the Wall, he doesn’t think too much of it.  But he really should have.  Would have, too, if the timing had been better.Turns out that a mission to locate and secure InSyndicate’s facilities on the other side of the Wall is kind of distracting.(Continuation of “A Light In The Attic”)





	1. A Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” is the title of a song by The Smiths. Given how much Jorian bonding happens in the cruiser, these lyrics give me many, many feels.

“Detective Kennex, you have a visitor.”

John frowned at the MX that had been standing at attention outside of the interview room for the last ten minutes.  Just glaring at John as he’d tried to get their rattled and scatterbrained witness to cough up a coherent account of what she’d seen.  Damn it.  Val usually did this part.  John would’ve happily handed the mess off to her… which was probably why she’d made herself scarce.  Smart woman, that Valerie Stahl.

But.  Going from an incomprehensible witness to the unblinking stare of an MX, John’s mild exasperation ramped up to something that made his right hand curl around the imaginary grip of his gun.

Jesus.  Rudy was right about these things have no manners programming.  And their sense of timing could be better.  A lot better.

“A visitor. Great,” John said.  “Where?”  No way was he letting the thing escort him around his own damn workplace.

“In the atrium.”

John glanced back toward the interview room and shared a quick look with Dorian who was trying to get the fifty-something aerobics instructor to take calming breaths.  John was supposed to be getting her some water -- bottled, not tap.  Was there really a difference in this day and age?  Maybe the chemicals in natural water were older.  Yeah, that seemed about right.

He asked the MX, “Not in a conference room?  Is this visitor here about a case?”

“I was not given that information.”

“Fine.  What’s the name?”

“Michael Costa.”

Shit.  “Yeah.  OK.  I got it.  This witness needs a chilled bottle of water.  Unopened.  Five hundred milliliters or smaller.”  It was best to be precise when ordering MXs around; they didn’t do well when called upon to take the initiative, turning a simple request into a ten-minute interrogation for parameters.  Jesus.  Yeah, John had learned that the hard way.

Rather than poke his head back in the room, he dug out his phone and sent Dorian a text: _****Atrium.  Costa.****_

And received an almost instantaneous reply: _****Again?****_

Yup.  Again.

John glanced toward the captain’s office.  The lights were off and door shut.  All-day meetings, it looked like.  With whom and why John didn’t know.  Didn’t want to know.  In fact, he hoped to never know what kind of pain came with that particular office.  Although, the way Paul lorded his Energy Marshal self over anyone with less seniority, he might be interested in taking the job someday.

Ugh.  Captain Paul?  John’s boss?  No.  No, no, no.  That’d be his cue to retire.  Save himself a world of aggravation.

Although… having to deal with Kennex day in and day out would probably be more painful for Paul.  John decided that was an argument in favor of sticking around and not an indication of how difficult John was to work with.  John was an awesome coworker.  Val and Sandra and Rudy -- they couldn’t all be wrong, right?  And as for McGinnis, well… she was just in denial.

No, John knew exactly what Paul’s problem was.  And it wasn’t John.  John was a fighter and he fought back, sucker punch for sucker punch.  It was inevitable, really.  Paul had done boxing back in school.  John had done football.  They were men of action, so somebody was bound to get a black eye every now and again.

But none of that could distract John from the deep, heavy drag of guilt when he caught sight of Michael Costa pacing along the bulletproof windows of the precinct atrium.

Ten years.  Ten years the man had spent in the Cubes, hope lost because the detective who had believed in his innocence had been suddenly killed in the line of duty.  And since no one had known that Ed Kennex had been looking into this particular closed case, no one had cottoned on until more bodies had started turning up and they’d been forced to consider either a copycat or a wrongful conviction.

“You finished your dad’s work.  He’d be proud,” Sandra had assured John when Glen Dunbar had been ID’ed as the real killer.

Yeah, John’s dad would have been proud, but disappointed that it had taken ten God damn years.

“Hey, Mr. Costa,” John greeted, forcing a light tone.  “You’re not missing out on work to come see me again, are you?”

The man glanced away briefly.  Yeah.  Guilt was definitely in the room with them.  “This is important, Detective Kennex.”

“I don’t doubt it is,” John answered, wondering if Costa saw Edward Kennex when he looked at John.  If he did, that would explain a lot, actually.  But John figured that paranoid schizophrenics had bigger problems to worry about.  “What can I do for you today?”

Costa patted his jacket pocket.  “Got it on my phone.  A photo.”

“OK.  Show me.”

A moment later, John found himself squinting at a square of graffitied wall.  Unremarkable except for the numbers painted prominently in the center.

“Four-nine-four,” Costa said, just in case John was struggling with the handwriting.  “I took that photo on the way to a job site yesterday.  But I saw the same three numbers on a dumpster behind the public library the day before that.  And this morning, they were painted on the side of the corner store near my place.  Whatever it is, it’s getting closer.”

“What are you doing in back alleys, man?” John felt compelled to demand.  Ed Kennex had died trying to clear this man’s name and he was wandering around shady parts of the city?  The hell.

“Hey,” he answered with wide-eyed innocence.  “We were working over on Harrington Avenue.  Shortest route between the job site and where we parked the truck.”

“Right.  So where’d you see this?”  John indicated the phone.

“South Kelvin.”

John felt his frown deepen.  South Kelvin was nowhere near the public library over by Harrington.  The symbol had crossed known turf boundaries.  “OK.  I’ll look into it.”  John pulled out his own cell phone and took a photo of the photo on Costa’s.  Data transfer old-school style.  Maybe Costa wasn’t the only paranoid in the room but, hell, John would pick up his membership card to that happy-go-lucky club on his way out.  “But, look, man.  While I appreciate your visits, you’ve gotta start looking out for yourself.  No more skipping work.”

“Sure.  Yeah.  Thanks, Detective Kennex.”

And because John was a putz, he actually waited in the atrium for Costa to leave before dialing the head office of the home repair crew that the man had just started working with.

“Good morning, this is Detective Kennex--”

“So you’re the reason I’m a man short this morning,” a gruff, harried voice barked.

“It would appear so.  Costa’s on his way.”

“Good.”

John scowled at the dial tone.  “Somebody’s having a fantastic 2049.”

“And it’s only the second week of January,” Dorian remarked from a few paces away.

John snorted, turning.  “Yeah.  Though, so far, I can’t complain,” he dared, going for an idle tone.  If the bullpen was surveyed six ways to Sunday, then the atrium was covered to Timbuktu and back.

“Glad to hear it,” Dorian said with a cute little smile that John’s libido thought the world of.  As in, John would orbit around that smile all day if he could.

But he couldn’t because -- damn it -- they were at work.  And, yeah, it was John’s fault for starting it.  Well.  OK.  This was him ending it.  For now.

Turning his phone screen toward Dorian, he shared the photo Costa had taken.

Dorian’s brow beetled.  “That looks like what we saw on the Wall in Chinatown last night.”

John hadn’t thought too much of it then.  Just a curiosity flashing past in peripheral vision on their way to the crime scene that they were currently picking away at today.  John had pretty much convinced himself that he’d only _****thought****_  he’d seen the numbers 4-9-4 in the midst of a design that had been intended to look like something else entirely.  Just subjective association -- a trick of the mind as it tried to find patterns and familiarity where none existed.  Definitely low priority.

But John was currently in the process of changing his mind about that.

“Nope.  South Kelvin.  And, according to Costa, another on a dumpster in midtown.”

The look Dorian gave him spoke volumes.  Although, to be fair, a look from Dorian usually did.

“Yeah,” John agreed with the silent remark.  “How’s the witness?  You get a statement?”

“And a sketch, yes.  There was an 85% match recorded by a drone in the vicinity shortly before the incident.  The MXs have been updated.”

Which meant that unless the guy pole vaulted over the Wall, he’d be picked up and placed in police custody within seventy-two hours.  The average, Dorian had once told him, was fourteen, and the suspect was usually apprehended at a mealtime.

“Mrs. Freeman--”  The witness.  “--is sitting down with a counselor now.”

“Good.  Looks like we’ve got some time to kill.”  John headed for the door and held it open.  “After you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are at a continuation I wasn't sure I'd be posting... or finishing. I'd stalled out a little less than halfway through and, thanks to some generous encouragement by readers just like you, I rediscovered my motivation. Just goes to show that comments and feedback are never EVER too late and they may inspire an author to share more of her/his vision with the fandom.
> 
> In summary, dear reader, your participation in the story is what keeps writers writing. (^_^)


	2. Mutual Friends

They found the graffiti on the convenience store in Costa’s neighborhood and the artwork on the dumpster behind the library.   _ ** **And,****_  thanks to Dorian accessing background drone data, they managed to locate the section of wall that Costa had photographed in South Kelvin.  John had figured it was likely that nobody had painted over them.  Community service crews didn’t often come this way; alley dumpsters and walls within established gang territory were not high priorities.

“I wonder how many of these things the drones would pick up,” John mused as they returned to the cruiser.

Dorian replied, “The algorithm would have to account for varying artistic styles.  Each appears to have been done by a different artist.”

“The gang task force probably has a program that covers that.  We should look in on our friend before we send a request,” John muttered, opening the driver’s side door.

Dorian’s beaming smile halted him.

“What?  What’d I do?”

“You called him _****our****_  friend, John.”

“For the--Jesus.  Will you just get in the car?”  Once they were both in their seats, John growled, “Sarcasm.  Don’t you know sarcasm when you hear it?”

“You’ve certainly given me enough examples.”

“Yes.  Exactly.”  John rolled the car away from the littered curb and headed for the bypass.

“And that wasn’t sarcasm, man.  You’re concerned.”

“Hey.  There’s no such thing as coincidences.”  If the Saint Christopher medallion had still been hanging from the rear view mirror, John would have gestured to it with a _****‘nuff said, D.****_

“I like that we have mutual friends outside of work, John,” Dorian mused after a telling silence.

“Dude.  What did I say about befriending the guy?  He’s on somebody’s short list.  Or he will be soon.”  All that talk of android existence and the preservation of their memories and how they want a say if the city starts seriously considering mass deactivation and -- God damn it -- that was one thing John couldn’t protect Dorian from.  “You’ve got to keep your distance, man.”  John glanced over.  “Please.”

“I wouldn’t cooperate with any sort of protest.”

“It wouldn’t matter.  You’d be guilty until proven innocent.”  John held up a hand.  “Wait, no.  More like ‘better safe than sorry.’”

Dorian turned his face toward the side window, disengaging from the conversation.  “I don’t like it.”

“Well.  Yeah, there’s a lot not to like.  But you can’t do a damn thing to help anybody if you’re shut off.”  Or destroyed.  “It’s our job to uphold the law.”

“There’s no law for this.”

“There’s no law for a lot of things that ought to have one.  Or ten.  The best we can do is try to stay objective.”

Dorian barked a silent laugh.  “This coming from the man who violated the crap out of a perp’s civil rights on our first day as partners.”

“Yeah.  OK.  Maybe you’re a good influence on me.”

There.  That won John a genuine smile.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.

None of the service androids at Saint Mary’s Hospital could point them in the direction of DRN-494.  The DRN’s charging pod in the maintenance section was empty.  That was when John decided to try a frontal assault; he went right to the hospital administrative offices and flashed his badge.

“We’re looking to have a word with one of your maintenance DRNs.  Number 494.  Where can we find him?”

The secretary didn’t even look up from his terminal screen.  “In the absence of a warrant, I’m not authorized to divulge that information.”

“Uh-huh.  Then we’d like to see the person who has that privilege.”

But they struck out with the board chairman as well.  What John found more interesting than the man’s rant about the police wasting his valuable time on a robot when there were actual human beings that awaited his attention was the fact that the administrator was clearly avoiding the issue.

“He’s panicked,” Dorian murmured in the elevator.

“Yup,” John agreed.  The whiny bureaucrat was probably lodging a complaint against John at this very moment.  Well.  It’d been a while since John had crossed the line.  Sandra was probably starting to wonder if he’d been replaced with a pod person.

The elevator delivered them to the ground floor with a soft _****ping!****_  and John stepped out into the corridor.  As he moved past a nurse’s station, he caught a glimpse of bright, varied color.  Unusual in daytime in the depths of dreary winter.

It was a floral arrangement.

John was struck by a brainwave.  “Hey, D.  Do you know where he spent most of his time?  Which department he was in the most often?”

“Pediatrics.  Why?”

Grinning with teeth that felt razor sharp, John placed a call.

A vaguely familiar male voice answered, “Mid City Floral.  What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Mr. Hartman?  This is Detective John Kennex.  I was hoping I could place an order.  And, any chance I could talk to Jeannie about the delivery?”


	3. Flower Delivery

“I don’t have to tell you that enlisting a civilian to interrogate witnesses for us is illegal,” Dorian chastised.

John shrugged.  “So maybe you’re _****not****_  such a good influence on me.  That’s what’s really bugging you, isn’t it?”  John changed lanes on the highway before poking at Dorian’s stubborn silence: “Or maybe you just wish you’d thought of it first.”

“First?  John, it goes against my programming to endanger people.”

“How is asking Jeannie Hartman to deliver flowers to the hard-working nurses in Saint Mary’s Pediatrics putting her in danger?”

“Four-nine-four, John!  This is city-wide, whatever it is.  And the one person who we know that identifies himself by those three numbers wasn’t where he was supposed to be.  We don’t know what’s going on here and you’ve just sent Jeannie into the thick of it with no backup or warning.”

“Hey, we can be the backup.  The delivery is scheduled for the end of visiting hours today.  We’ll just happen to be cruising through the parking lot--”

“That’s not the point.”

“Well, what is the point?”

“We could have sent someone in undercover.”

“No, we couldn’t have.  And you know why, damn it.”

Because DRN-494 hadn’t been reported missing or stolen.  John had asked Dorian to check with the local PD and had come up empty.  In fact, even if they waited twenty-four hours, they still wouldn’t be able to use department resources to track him down.  Why?  Because androids weren’t people; they were property.  And John hadn’t logged DRN-494 as evidence or an informant; he had nothing to support the evidence angle and, in order to sell the informant story, he’d need the permission of the hospital, which John would never get.

John summed up, “We’re on our own, D.”  And yes, John was well aware of the fact that Dorian didn’t like it.

“I don’t like this.”

See?  John was clued in.  Reaching over, John bumped Dorian’s arm.  “We’ll figure this out.  And we’re not hanging Jeannie out to dry, either, OK?”

“OK.”  Dorian caught John’s hand in a rare gesture of intimacy outside of John’s home.  “I trust you.”

And John didn’t need a lecture on how valuable that trust was, so he just nodded and squeezed Dorian’s fingers.

Val and Paul were both in the conference room for their scheduled daily Show and Tell.  John slouched into a seat across from Paul’s thunderous frown and Dorian perched delicately on a chair across from Val.  Maldonado was late.

So they got the routine updates out of the way while they waited.

“Sorry for the delay, everyone,” the captain said when she finally marched through the door.  “Meetings ran late.”

Val had too much tact to ask.  Paul didn’t.

“What’s all the hubbub about?  I’ve had FBI and DHS tying up my phone all day.”

“Your fan club had to leave a message for once?” John couldn’t resist jeering.

Paul pointed at John.  “At least they don’t show up in person three times a week.”

“Hey.  Michael Costa is trying to be helpful,” John heard himself defend.  When Sandra raised an eyebrow at him, he added, “And it’s only been three times since Christmas.  Total.”

Paul scoffed.  “Right.  Sure.  Just ask the guy out already, Kennex.”

Captain Maldonado held up her hand to halt Paul’s vitriol without even looking in his direction.  “Costa came by again?  Today?” she asked John.

“Yeah.”

“John, this is becoming unhealthy.  Next time is the last time.  Deal with it.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Glad to hear it.”  Addressing everyone, she announced, “Tomorrow, we’ll need all hands on deck.”

“Something going down?”  Paul again.  He was like the overeager suck-up in the class.  Practically waving his hand in the air, hoping to get called on.

“Yes.  I’m not at liberty to say yet.  But be prepared for a long haul when you report in tomorrow.  Assignments will be given then.”  With a glance at Paul, she added, “No undercover work.”

He leaned back in his chair with an air of disappointment.

John bit down on a smirk.  “I guess this means it’s time to do laundry and clean out the fridge.”

Dorian didn’t correct him: John had done laundry last night and the only perishable food in the fridge was an almost empty carton of milk and a couple of eggs.  And because Dorian didn’t correct him, Sandra gave the OK for them all to go home as soon as their case files were up to date.

“How’s your charge situation?” John inquired as he and Dorian made their way to the cruiser.  It was almost time for Jeannie to make her delivery and John hadn’t been kidding earlier when he’d said she would have backup standing by.

“I topped off while you were murdering your report on this morning’s crime scene.”

John rolled his eyes.  “Right.  So you’ll need a couple of hours before shift?”

“At least.”

“Oh?  You sound like you’ve got plans.”

“I do.  Ask me later and I’ll tell you all about them.”

Oh, boy.  Why was this the one time Dorian decided to hold onto the mystery?  It was already driving John nuts.  “You get that we’re in the cruiser, right?”

“So?”

“So you have never -- not once -- not shared what was on your mind here.”

“First time for everything.”

Apparently.  They parked unobtrusively in a cluster of vehicles: stragglers that had yet to be shooed out of the building so that their over-medicated and exhausted friends and family could get some shuteye.  John and Dorian watched the Mid City Floral Boutique van pull up and Jeannie Hartman get out.

“That’s quite the arrangement,” Dorian noted as she entered the building with the delivery in her arms.  “I would have guessed you’d go with the cheapest one.”

“Hey, pal.  I’m not cheap when it comes to gifts.”  He poked Dorian in the chest, where his silver Saint Michael pendant rested.

Dorian smiled.

John noted, “That doesn’t make you feel less special, huh?”

“It doesn’t.  I like that you’re generous.”

“Generous.  Jesus.  I’m not--”  On the verge of contradicting himself, John focused on the hospital entrance with a huff.  “Just zip it.”

Jeannie reappeared twenty minutes later, got in the van, and drove off.  John fired up the engine and followed, just to make sure she made it back to the shop safe.  She gestured for them to come in through the rear entrance, so they did.

“Thanks again for doing this, Jeannie,” John said charmingly as Mr. Hartman puttered around the shop front, sweeping up.

Jeannie smiled at him and Dorian.  “I don’t mind.  I really appreciate what you both did for me.  So… thank you.”

“Sure.”  It was hard not to sound like a pompous ass in these kinds of conversations.  Maybe that was why Dorian interceded.

“Did the staff remember the DRN that worked there?”

“Oh, absolutely.  They really miss him.”

“How long has it been since they’ve seen him?” John asked.

“Almost a week,” Jeannie answered.  “No one seems to know why he suddenly disappeared.  They said he looked… sad on his last day, though.  He was…”  She paused, her eyes going up and to the side as she tried to remember the exact words, “He was distracted and took longer than usual to calibrate the heart monitors.”  

“Did anyone stand out to you as being too vocal or not enough?”  It was a long shot, but John figured nothing ventured was nothing gained.

Jeannie shook her head.  “We only spoke for fifteen minutes.  Everyone had something nice to say about the DRN you’re looking for.  I didn’t mention you, though.  Of course.  You asked me not to.  So…”

“Thank you, Jeannie,” Dorian told her.  “This means a lot to us.”

“Sure.  Anytime.”

John turned to go, but Dorian didn’t follow.  When John looked back over his shoulder, he grinned at the sight of Jeannie giving his partner a hug.  This was a first.  Usually, John was the Hugee.

“You know, when the city replaced the DRNs a few years ago, I didn’t think much of it,” Jeannie confided softly as she released him.  “But I’m really glad it was you that day.  If one of those other androids had been there, I don’t think I’d still be alive today.”

“I’m really glad I was there, too, Jeannie.”

John cleared his throat softly and held the door open.  He thanked Jeannie Hartman one more time, but didn’t hold out for a hug.

When he slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition, Dorian’s pensive expression parted long enough for him to say, “I can understand what DRN-494 meant when he said that getting a hug from Philip -- the little boy he’d broken protocol to save -- was the most human connection he’d ever felt.”

“Hey.  What’s wrong with my hugs?  I give great hugs.”

Dorian gave him a patient look.  “Of course you do.  Your hugs are awesome, man.  Because you’re mine--”

John’s heart fluttered helplessly in his chest at that.

“--but that’s what makes you different.  A hug from Jeannie is like receiving kindness from a stranger.  Anonymous altruism.  It’s a glimpse of a world where I’m a member, John.  Where I belong.  Where I have value simply because I’m there.”  Dorian dipped his head.  “I understand why 494 would treasure that moment.  Any android would.”

“Any human would, too,” John replied, daring to cup the back of Dorian’s neck and squeeze once.  Gently.

Slowly, Dorian looked up through the windshield.  “An android would do anything to keep a memory like that.”

John’s hand slid away and back to the gearshift.  “Even walk away from--wait, wouldn’t his programming prevent that?”

“Normally, yes, it would.”

“Right.  So he had help.  Probably human.”  John could readily believe that there was someone out there who would help an android disappear--

“We should check with NASA,” Dorian realized abruptly, “and see if they’re expecting the arrival of any DRNs from this area.”

“You think 494 was about to be sold?”  And there was no reason for the hospital to withhold the fact that the DRN had been sent to a new owner if the sale had actually gone through legal channels.  Which probably meant that either it hadn’t happened that way or the transaction was problematically incomplete.  Suspicious, much?  But an imminent transfer of ownership would mean-- “Memory wiped and reprogrammed?”

“I can’t think of anything else that would tempt a DRN to go against his programming.”

Neither could John.  He hoped that Dorian would at least fight to keep his memories this time around, but it was DRN-0167’s core character that was the real treasure.  And, if push came to shove, John knew he’d rather live in a world that had DRN-0167 in it.  Even if he wasn’t John’s Dorian anymore.

“Maybe we should let this one go, D.”

Dorian gaped at him for a moment before looking back at the road and the whooshing street lights as the cruiser dived through one pool of illumination after another.

“I mean, what if this is what he wants?”  Someone -- possibly DRN-494 himself -- had gone to a lot of trouble.  Sometimes missing people didn’t want to be found.  The hospital hadn’t even reported the DRN missing -- hadn’t wanted to answer any of the awkward and probing questions that an investigation would require.

They hadn’t wanted to admit that they’d been unable to control one of their own androids.

Yeah, that could be a problem.  If John and Dorian located the DRN and hauled him back, even more awkward questions would get asked.  Questions about artificial intelligence and free will and android rights.

Dorian countered, “But what if it’s not?  What if this isn’t what he wants?”

Shit.  That was also a possibility.  Someone could have abducted the DRN, could be holding him against his will, could be using him for nefarious purposes.

John’s paranoia whispered that a nefarious aim had already been achieved.  John thought of the graffiti scattered throughout the city: either DRN-494 was already a martyr for his cause or he was now leading it full steam ahead from the shadows.

Those terrible, world-altering questions were going to be asked.  It was only a matter of time.


	4. Imminent Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes (which are fairly explicit, so feel free to stop reading at the scene break if you prefer -- you won't miss anything plot-related)

“One thing you said today that is totally correct,” John began, locking the door to his waterfront apartment unit behind him and crossing the open living space.

Dorian paused on the threshold of what used to be the dining room but was now John’s office and comms set up.  “Only one?  I’m sure you can count higher than that.”

With a huff, John continued, “I am yours.  In a way that I’m no one else’s.”

Dorian moved in with a smile and John’s arms rose in anticipation.  Grasping his wrists, Dorian hitched John’s longer arms over the DRN’s stronger shoulders.

“Hey, lookit that,” John teased softly, leaning in for one of those Eskimo kisses that allowed him close enough to feel Dorian’s beatific grin.  Like sunshine on his skin.  “Who’s a happy toaster.”

“John,” Dorian stuttered on a chuckle.  Maybe it was supposed to be a scolding.

“Wouldn’t trust my buns to any other.”  Or his puns, either.

That earned him a bark of silent laughter.  But then Dorian reared back and, squinting, asked, “Why haven’t we had penetrative sex yet, John?”

OK.  John had to laugh.  Had to.  “Are we about to have an intellectual discussion about this?  Because the way you just asked -- not exactly revving my engine if you know what I mean.”

“How should I ask?”

Oh, boy.  The possibilities were endless.  Endless ways to torture and torment John.  Instead, he lobbed his own volley, “Would you like to, uh, take our -- us -- things in that direction?”

“Yes.”

Wow.  Abrupt.  “Um.  I assume you’ve researched this.”

Dorian now looked amused.  “A fair amount.”

An encyclopedia’s worth, in order words.  “So there’s something you wanna try.  OK.  But, just.  When you tell me this time, can you maybe not talk about it like we’re rehashing an old case file?”

“I should soften my tone,” Dorian inferred in a quiet hum.

John nodded.  “Slow it down a little,” he demonstrated.  “Drawl.  But not, you know, mocking.”

“Like this, John?”

Oh, shit was John going to regret teaching Dorian how to pillow talk.  Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.  “And use the word ‘fuck,’” he naughtily enunciated on a growl, swinging his hips as he shuffled a little closer.

Dorian’s hands smoothed over John’s arms and down his ticklish sides with a firm touch to grip his waist.  “I’d like to fuck you, John.”

From the wide, excited smile stretching Dorian’s lips, he had definitely felt the shiver that had crested over John’s body, raising goose bumps on his arms, prickling his scalp, and kicking holes in his heart rate -- tumbling his entire body _****up****_  the metaphorical stairs.

“Was that a _****yes?”****  _Dorian wanted to know.

“That was a _****tell me more.”****_

“More?”

“Yeah.”  What did Dorian hope to get out of this?  “You want to hold me down?  You want me to ride your cock?”

“I want to watch your reactions--”

Blinking, John pressed a finger to Dorian’s lips.  “Wait.  There’s a reason, isn’t there?  You wanna top because that’s the sensory data -- from the organic memories -- that you’ve got to work with.”

Dorian nodded and, frankly, John was relieved with a silent confirmation.  Anything beyond that would have definitely been too much information for him on Nigel Vaughn.

Dorian explained, “I need you to show me and tell me what it feels like so that when you fuck me--”

Oh, damn.  John really liked that idea.  More than he ever had with anyone else in his life.

“--I want to be able to draw on the sensations I’ve already experienced and generate a composite so that I can--”  Dorian gave John a rueful grin.  “--feel it the way you do.”

“So this is purely for the sake of science?”  John’s brows quirked playfully.  “Education?”  They weren’t the most romantic of reasons, but so what.  He and Dorian were building a life under this roof.  And, as far as John was concerned, being able to enjoy each other was a pretty damn important corner stone in the foundation.

“Don’t you enjoy teaching me things, John?”

He did.  So sue him.  “Dinner first,” John negotiated because, damn it, he hadn’t eaten anything except a doughnut since lunch and a growling stomach was probably the unsexiest thing ever.  It was in John’s top ten, anyway.  “And lemme shower.”

Dorian tilted his head.  “Is that an attempt at consideration?”

“Kind of.”

“It’s not necessary.  My olfactory sensors aren’t--”

“No, not like that.  I just.  I want to wash the day away.  Focus on this.  Us.”

Dorian didn’t argue.  In fact, he actually looked a little charmed.  Well, whaddaya know.  John still had a bit of the ol’ Kennex Charisma in him.

“You shower.  I’ll fix dinner.”

John hummed.  “I like this plan.”

“Thought you might.”

The shower was agony in the best way.  John made himself take his time because as badly as he wanted what was coming (which would be hopefully both him and Dorian, more than once tonight), he needed to settle himself into the idea of it.  Transition from the realm of idle speculation and occasional fantasy to imminent reality.

“First time for everything,”Dorian had said in the cruiser and that applied here.

Fuck.  John had never thought he’d be doing the nervous virgin routine at forty-six years old.  Yup.  This was where a life of vanilla sex with his former girlfriends had gotten him.

John couldn’t think of anyone else he would have considered doing this with, though, so he couldn’t really bring himself to be disappointed, in all honesty.

Honesty.  That was gonna be real important tonight.  And if John wasn’t ready to stop hiding behind bluffs and bluster, then Dorian’s plans were going to have to be put on hold.

But by the time John had eaten a cheese omelet with portions of steamed frozen vegetables and spiced wild rice (and thanked the chef with a soft kiss), well.  Yeah.  OK.  He took Dorian’s hand, threading and tangling their fingers together.

“I’m good for the next act.”

“Does that make me Don Giovanni?” Dorian asked in what John was considering labeling That Hot Damn Tone of voice -- the soft murmur that made him want to rub himself all over Dorian, clothes or no.

John countered, “So long as you limit your conquests to me.”

“Looking forward to it, man,” Dorian mouthed against John’s lips and John wasn’t getting any younger -- or less anxious -- so he walked backwards toward the bed.  Sat.  Reclined.  Arched into his lover’s kiss as the DRN followed him down.

 

* * *

 

 Dorian was big.  Newsflash.  Not.

But he was patient, putting his biological sensory data on hold while John breathed deep and burned up from the inside out.  He was eager to get back to the part where pure pleasure rippled through him from that spot deep inside that Dorian had massaged with gentle fingertips.  God, that had been incredible.  John hated himself for spending decades in ignorance.

Lying on his belly, he’d gasped and thrashed and groaned as Dorian had stretched him slow and firm.

“How does it feel, John?” he’d asked again and again.

And John had only been able to moan for more and _****good****_  and _****just like that****_ and _****right there fuck****_  and _****it feels like a long slow come that never ends don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop--****_

Fuck.

And now John was straddling Dorian’s hips, taking that cock one centimeter at a time and God damn there was a lot of it.

Not gonna all fit.  No way.  No fucking way.

But like hell was he going to admit it to Dorian.  So, at about halfway down, John started rolling his hips until--

“Jesus, Mary fucking Joseph!”

“Are you all right, John?”

John grabbed for Dorian’s hands where they curled gently around his hips and gripped them hard.  “Fuck, yes.  Fuck.  Fuck!”  Breath?  Hah.  John forgot what that was as he greedily pressed into the angle that--

“Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God!”

Right there.  Right fucking there.

“Does it feel good, John?”

So good.

“Does it feel like coming?”

Yes, yes, yes.  Forget slow, this was a supernova of heat and light and his skin was so past sizzling he may have gone numb.  He needed more, more, more.

“John--” Dorian whispered as John felt Dorian’s hips lock up and into his.

“Oh damn.”  He’d taken it all.  Holy hell.

“I’m not hurting you?”

Hurting?  What the hell was Dorian blathering about.  This wasn’t hurt, this was amazing amazing amazing.  Full and restless and John needed to move _****now.****_

But his forty-six-year-old hamstrings -- the left one and what remained of the right -- didn’t seem to agree.

“Shit!” he cursed, sitting up before the cramp could shut him down and Dorian’s thick cock slid back, back, back, and out, forcing a grunt up John’s throat and he hated feeling so achy and hollow and--

“Lie down,” Dorian coaxed, arranging himself between John’s splayed thighs and there was no shame.  None at all.

“D,” he wheezed, his hands squeezing over smooth shoulders and fingers clawing down over gentle swells of firm pectorals.  “Didn’t wanna stop.”

“We aren’t.  Just relax--”  And then Dorian’s hands were massaging his jumpy muscles, easing the building tension away.

John moaned at the feel of perfect lips pressing soft kisses on the inside of his knee, the shell of a perfect ear brushing against the almost pale hair sprinkling his inner thighs, warm breath moving up.  Up.  Up.

Oh, God.  Yes.  John was very much happy with this spoiler alert and had nothing but good things to say about the warm, wet tongue that wandered around during a lengthy layover at the recommended scenic spot.  Familiar, pleasant tingles loosened his shoulders and spine and despite the gentle bliss of it, all he could think of was that _****more.****_   That deep pull and press.

“D, c’mon,” John finagled, curling his fingers over and around Dorian’s shoulders, catching under his arms and tugging.  “C’mere.  Let’s finish this.”

Dorian hummed, pulling back and sliding up John’s prone form, collecting a pillow -- “Lift your hips.” -- and then, oh yeah.  This was more like it.  A kiss, slick and warm and _****nnngh,****_  and in the instant before Dorian breached him for a second time, John said, “Feel it with me.”

“I don’t think I’ll last long if I do that.”

“Good.  Me, either.”  He smiled, passing the pad of one thumb over Dorian’s lower lip.

A trickle of blue lights flickered across his cheek and then a tiny gasp.

Bingo.

John hoped he was as ready for this as he thought he was.

It was physically impossible for Dorian to have gotten bigger in the last five minutes, but Jesus that was what it felt like.  John grabbed the sheets, resisting the urge to climb the fucking headboard, and clenched his jaw tight.  Pushed back.  Opened himself because, yes, this was OK.  This was Dorian and very, very OK.

And then a soft, desperate whine -- Dorian’s.  Dorian feeling the slick slide of skin like John was feeling it and there -- Jesus Christ right God damn there -- John shouted and bucked and all in.  Oh, fuck.  All in.

In and out.  Over and over.  Rolling waves of sensation.  Burning and pleasure and _****give me more.****_

Slow, seamless rocking dissolved gradually with every thrust until John gave up on tender-deep-filthy kisses and threw his head back, teeth gritted against frantic, punishing, skin-slapping, blind need.  John opened his eyes and the sight of Dorian driving in and in and in and in--

John reached for his own cock.  C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon--

And he did.  For hours.  Or maybe years.

Dorian called his name, twitching and shuddering and pressing and chasing like he was caught in John’s momentum and John was never going to let this go.  Not willingly, anyway.

Moot point what with Dorian crashing into him, overwhelmed and wrung out in a way that was unnatural for an android but very, very human.

Fingers tightened around John’s shoulders as Dorian snuggled closer, forehead pushing against the flushed, tingling flesh of John’s chest.  John threw his limp arms around Dorian, marveling that the DRN was actually panting audibly.  Hot breaths.  Very hot.  Feverish.

“Overloaded your processors or something?” John guessed, voice hoarse.

“Ugh,” Dorian garbled.  “Need to lower my core temperature.”

John grinned up at the windows.  That was the best compliment he’d ever been given.  Hands down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John teaching Dorian how to pillow-talk was absolutely inspired by starandrea’s “One of the Crazy Ones” on AO3 at archiveofourown.org/works/1074940.


	5. Dorian's Room

John woke to the catch of the sheet tangling around the stump of his right thigh as he rolled over, seeking and groping for warmth across an empty landscape of mattress.

He was alone.

Fuck.  John let his forehead fall to the tangled bed linens.  This was the part he wouldn’t recommend to a friend.  The part where the android half of the equation had to go charge in a separate room because the soft pulsing of the pod snaked into the human’s subconscious where it turned into laser-guided rifle blasts and pounding pulse and gushing blood, blood, blood.

Yeah, that had been a fun night.  Nights.  Because of course John had insisted he had it under control.  He’d been perfectly fine sleeping next to Dorian’s charging pod in the annex of Rudy’s lab, hadn’t he?  But five rounds of PTSD flashbacks later, Dorian had put his foot down and maneuvered the charger back down the hall.

John sat up with a sigh.  It was still dark out.  Almost six a.m., but dawn came late in winter.  He scrubbed his hands over his face and peered in the direction of his charger.  The leg that Dorian had removed while John had been passed out in a post-coital stupor was fully charged.  John reached for his old one instead.  Locked it on.  Wandered into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

They already sat clean and dry in the drainboard.

OK…  “Guess that means I’ll pack a bag.”  But he didn’t even know what he’d be packing for.  So he pulled out two duffel bags and then meandered down the hall to the back room.

The door was cracked open.  John had insisted: “If you wouldn’t mind some company, don’t shut it all way.  You shut it and, shy of an assault on the apartment, I won’t bother you.”

He toed the door open, glancing over the partially-filled shelves in the glow of the charging pod.  The slug key chain and apartment key were right next to the doorjamb.  Point position for being scooped up and pocketed on the way out the door.

The Saint Michael pendant sat in a sparkly pool of silver chain beside the slug and the apartment key -- Dorian had explained that exposed metal interfered with charging in spectacularly volatile ways.

There was a rug John had bought him because Dorian liked the feel of its long, shag fibers between his bare toes and John was all for seeing that boyish grin.

Valerie’s Christmas present -- a digital diary -- was tucked onto a shelf on the far side of the charging pod.  John didn’t doubt that Dorian had already copied several of his off-duty memories into the contraption for safekeeping.

Paul had given Dorian a typical asshole gift -- a calendar of skimpily clad sexbots.  John had refused to store it in his own locker, so they’d found a spot for it in Rudy’s lab.  Hell, Rudy probably enjoyed it.

While John was thinking of Rudy, he glanced over to the corner and the still-pristine set of sand castle molds and digging trowel.  Definitely ordered online.  From somewhere in the southern hemisphere given the time of year.  But it gave John a pleasant tickle in his chest to see proof of Dorian sharing his time spent with John, telling a friend about it because it meant something to him.  At the time, had Dorian wished it had been a proper date?  Was the Christmas gift a subtle encouragement, Rudy urging Dorian to just go for it?

“Hmmph,” John grunted, amused that Rudy would try his hand at matchmaking.  Maybe an effort to repay John for teaming him up with Val for an evening back in December?

“John?”

“Sorry.  Woke myself up.  You go back to charging.”

“Another flashback?”

“Hm?  No.  No, nothing like that.”  John held up his hand, but Dorian was already stepping out of the charging pod and gently placing the memory stick that the captain had given him back in its velvet-lined box.

“Find anything fun this time?” John asked, aware that Dorian generally viewed and integrated one entry per charge cycle.  Savoring it.

“Not that it’s any of my business if you’re planning to give Dorian anything for Christmas,” John had offhandedly mentioned (in a quiet aside) to the captain following a mundane staff meeting, “but if any harmless memories from his previous commissioning found their way back to him…”

John had shrugged and Sandra had taken it from there.

“Did you know that Captain Maldonado had a rookie nickname?”

John chuckled.  “Don’t doubt it.  We all did.”

“What was yours?” Dorian wanted to know.  Because he wanted to know everything.

“Kleenex.  After the facial tissues.”

“Not because you were a snot-nosed brat?”

John flicked the DRN’s pajama’ed shoulder.  “Better a snot-nosed brat than a Ken-doll.  Which was what my dad had to suffer through.”

“Clearly, family names are cursed.”

“Sure.”  Instead of telling Dorian to be glad he didn’t have one, John wheedled, “So what was Sandra’s?”

“Waldo.”

John snorted, leaned against the door frame, and wiped a hand over his face.  “Oh, shit.  Where’s Maldonado -- Maldo -- Waldo.  No wonder she won’t wear stocking caps or stripes.”

“Or eyeglasses.”

“Don’t tell me someone actually called her that to her face within the last five or six years?”

“No.  I think we were on a stake-out.  She drinks even more coffee than you.”  Dorian paused.  “Well, she used to.”

John nodded and Dorian noticed his lack of surprise.

“You knew she and I used to work together?”

“Eh.  I figured.  The day we booked Reinhardt for the assault on the precinct, I asked her why she’d put in the rec order for you specifically.  She told me you were special.”

And this was why John told Dorian things.  Little things that erased the tiny crease between his brows and pulled genuine happiness from him.  John had always found smiles to be sexy and Dorian’s ought to be labeled a lethal weapon; John was blown away every time.

Good thing he had a sturdy doorway to hold him up.

“What else?” Dorian pressed, moving closer.

John remembered -- in the wake of the XRN’s destruction at Bar Luxon, Sandra had asked John of Dorian, “How’s he handling this?”  A reminder -- an order -- disguised as a simple question: Dorian had needed his partner and it was time for John to step up and halve the burden.

But if John brought up the XRN or Vaughn, Dorian’s smile would disappear, so he said, “She was a little worried about you during the energy shortage.  But I got her to admit you were pretty great on a low charge.”

“I’m gonna miss his little outbursts,” John had confessed and Sandra had agreed, “Tell me about it.”

Dorian scowled and John marveled: even the DRN’s irritation was endearing.  “My objection is still valid, John.  It’s unfair for the MXs to be given charging priority.”

“Yeah.  I hear you,” John replied, running his hand down Dorian’s arm.  “But I stand by what I said -- even at half a charge, you’ve got them beat, D.”

“Hmm,” Dorian said and the joyful glow was back.  He leaned in and John met him halfway for a kiss.

“Took long enough,” he groused on a mumble smudged against the DRN’s lips.

“Were you timing yourself?”

“Timing my--!  Jeez, listen to you.  Timing myself.”  John didn’t ask why he would be timing himself.  He knew why: he competed.  It was his thing.  For lack of a worthy opponent, he competed against himself.  Even in something as simple as coaxing a good-morning kiss from Dorian.  “I like that you think I’m that cute.”

From the slow curve of the DRN’s lips, Dorian wasn’t buying it.

John sobered.  “There’s not much time before we gotta go.  I don’t know when we’re gonna have another chance.”  And that right there was what had brought John to the threshold of Dorian’s room before dawn, interrupting his charging cycle.  Hoping for a kiss.

Understanding, Dorian gave him a second, longer, and impossibly softer kiss.  “Then let’s go back to bed, John.”

“You’re not done charging.”

“I’ll have enough time while you shower and guzzle coffee.  Just putting gel in your hair takes forever, man.  Are you arranging each strand individually?”

“And enjoying every second of it while I have so many to play with.”

“Balding runs in the family?”

“Stress runs in the family,” John retorted, following Dorian back out into the living space.

Dorian climbed onto the mattress and propped himself up against the headboard.  John snuggled in next to him.  He was tired, the sudden burst of wakefulness fading rapidly now that he wasn’t mostly vertical.

“Do you really think our assignment will be that demanding?” Dorian asked quietly, glancing from the leg still charging on the power dock to the old one John was currently wearing.

John sighed and leaned his head against Dorian’s.  “Sandra’s never asked for more than I could give -- or more than I’d willingly offer -- but she doesn’t deliver heads-up like that lightly.”

Dorian was silent for a moment before admitting with some reluctance, “If I cut back to only the most vital systems, I’ll be able to manage fifty-two continuous hours of moderate activity before I reach critical levels.”  Before John could ask, Dorian volunteered, “Fifteen percent charge.  Enough for one brief emergency scenario.”

Like climbing the side of a building to take down a psychotic perp in a clock tower.

John smirked.  “And then I guess I’d be carrying you home over my shoulder, huh?”

“The new leg might come in handy for that.  Increased leverage.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need it.”

But three hours later, John had the sinking feeling that they might.  Surrounded by the fogged privacy glass of an interrogation room, Captain Maldonado slid the tablet detailing their assignment across the table toward John, whose eyes zeroed in on their target destination and froze there:

He and Dorian were going over the Wall.


	6. Mission Prep

“This can’t be right,” John said quietly, clutching to a calm exterior with all the determination he could manage after only two cups of coffee.  He gestured to his partner and reminded the captain, “He’s gonna need to charge and my leg makes me a liability over there.”

“There’s no mistake,” Maldonado answered, sliding into the seat across from John.

Rather than hover over both of them, Dorian also sat.  He reached for the tablet and touched his fingertip to the screen.  Streaks of blue light zipped across his cheek as he downloaded the data.

“This is a strike mission,” she informed them.  “You’ll be going in with a military unit to locate InSyndicate’s base of operations on the other side and secure it.”

Dorian, now finished with the tablet, nudged it a centimeter in John’s direction.  He didn’t pick it up.  Sure, he knew that InSyndicate still had a presence on the other side of the Wall.  His interviews with Anna had revealed that right off the bat.  And, Reinhardt had proven that InSyndicate knew how to deactivate MXs.  Plus, they might even be set up to support DRNs and XRNs over there thanks to Nigel Vaughn’s eagerness to build androids.  All of that probably boiled down to--

“I’m not going over there as a cop.  I’m Dorian’s backup,” John realized.

The captain nodded.  “They need another combat-model android to cover the vulnerabilities of the military-grade MXs.  They asked to borrow Dorian.  I’m sending you so that he has every chance of making it back from this mission in one piece.”

She looked at Dorian.  “It’s rough over there.  Resources are thin for the most part, but we suspect the heavy tech is controlled by gangs.  Paul will be on the team that relieves you.  He’ll be tasked with identifying additional targets and getting us accurate census data on the population.  Your job is to go in, take control of InSyndicate’s facility before another gang claims their territory, and then pull back once reinforcements arrive.”

With a gesture to the tablet, she concluded, “We have a narrow window of opportunity to find a toehold over there.  Maybe bring the Wall down in our lifetime.  But the main reason is if we don’t do this, we’ll be facing a second generation of terrorism in five years.  The tech will only be harder to beat then.”

“Right.  Face the threat now rather than the one further down the road,” John mumbled.

She nodded and said to Dorian, “I’m aware of the risks to you, Dorian.  I wish I could ask, but this is an order.”

“I understand, Captain.”

“Read through the details and then requisition what you think you’ll need.  Rudy will be able to help you with comms.  You should have enough time to get your case files ready to be handed off before you make contact with the strike team’s second-in-command at 1900 hours.  You’re rolling out tonight, so lay off the coffee and try to rest up somewhere before then.”  She detoured on her way to the door, patting John’s shoulder.  “Don’t take any unnecessary risks.  You, either, Dorian.”

And then they were alone, surrounded by the nondescript, pale frost of tinted glass.  Just the right balance of ghost gray that could make a person forget that there was a world beyond these four walls.  Amnesia.  That’s what this shade of misty, dull white ought to be called -- amnesia gray.

“I can get started on our requisitions,” Dorian offered in a subdued tone.

“Yeah.  OK.”  So totally _****not****_  OK, but what could John do about it?  He’d already read between the lines: either John went with Dorian or John stayed behind while Dorian went over the Wall without him.  His entire body tensed and twitched -- a visceral _****Nope****_  that he tasted on his tongue and felt in the slow, nauseating roll of his belly.  “Add a Kevlar vest for you.”

“I don’t require a vest.  Besides, it will interfere with my ability to scan effectively.”

“You’re not the only one on the team capable of scanning,” John reminded him.  “And vests can come off if they have to.  But if you get shot up over there, chances are that I’m not gonna be able to find any bubblegum to fix you up with.”

He felt Dorian’s stare and, after a moment of belligerent stubbornness, looked up to meet his gaze.  A gaze which softened upon sight of the fear John couldn’t banish or ignore, only push behind a layer of anger and a shell of abruptness.  “OK, John.  A vest and some bubblegum and I’ll be all set.”

A puff of laughter escaped inelegantly through John’s nose.  And even though they were at work, he found himself reaching out to his partner, gently slapping his shoulder and letting his palm linger a moment.

Five minutes later, John had finished his reading and was adding a few more things to the bare essentials that had already been set aside for them by logistics.

And then they went back to work.

Dorian liberally filled in the blanks of John’s disjointed accounts on their case files, a task that would melt the brain of any MX.  After adding in updates and filing everything with records, John’s desk was clear to the point of being reflective.

They were done in the bullpen and it wasn’t even lunch yet.

Well, it wasn’t like they didn’t have a shitload of other errands to run.

John managed to catch Valerie on their way out and asked, “Can I send you a contact?”

“A case?”

“Not quite.”  But she clearly remembered John looking into the death of that Chrome, Brian Barrow.  John was calling in the favor.

“Sure.  Good luck, John.  Dorian.”

John summoned a cocky smile.  “Luck is for the ill-prepared,” he joked.

Catching Paul’s eye from across the maze of terminals, they exchanged a nod of acknowledgement: duty called and both would answer.  They didn’t agree on much -- or even respect much about the other -- but this right here was some very solid common ground.

John elbowed Dorian toward the exit.

Nobody said goodbye.

Moving down his shopping list, John placed a call to Jeannie Hartman to give her Val’s number.  “Just in case something comes to you in retrospect and you can’t get through to me.”  He didn’t want her to think she was in danger, especially if she wasn’t.  But like hell he was leaving her without backup.

And then it was onward to logistics to pick up their gear before making the drive to Rudy’s lab.

“Right.  Hello.  Visiting for work, isn’t it?” Rudy greeted with a shaky smile.  Yeah, he’d heard the rumors, all right.  Prep work for an excursion over the Wall.  Kind of a big deal.  Especially for a limited edition android and guy with a prosthetic leg.  “Dorian, let’s start with you so that your system can reboot while I sort out John.”

“What’s to be sorted, Rudy?  You don’t need a guided tour of my phone.”  John was more than happy to hand it over and go be unconscious for an hour or two.

“Um, your locator chip.  It’s standard issue.”

Which meant that Anna -- and thus, InSyndicate -- might have accessed the specs on it.  Bullseye, anyone?  “Right.”

“But I’ve got iodine and super glue and a fresh scalpel, so we’re good in that department.”

John huffed a laugh… until he realized Rudy was serious.  And then he just rolled his eyes.  “At least you’re not going to be using duct tape for the procedure.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I could.  For removing arm hair and the upper layer of dermis?”

“Yeah, I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.  Dorian, let’s get to work on your GPS and communication systems.  Anything that broadcasts a signal, traceable or otherwise.  Do you need any assistance with prioritizing your programming?”

“I can manage.  Thank you, Rudy.”  When Rudy excused himself to use the restroom before getting started, Dorian sidled closer to John.  “This is going to be difficult.”

“What?  Your updates or whatever?  I can leave the room if--”

“No, John.  In order to make my charge last as long as possible, I’m going to have to cut back on a lot of systems.  I won’t seem like myself.”

“Yeah?  Who will you seem like?”

“An MX.”

John smirked, reaching out a hand to pet Dorian’s hip.  “Are you more worried that I’ll make fun of you for it or that I’ll like you better that way?”

Dorian very characteristically ignored any and all questions he didn’t want to answer.  “I’ve always been here, you know?  But when we’re over there, you’re going to make a bad pun--”

“My puns are fantastic.”

“--and I’m not going to have a comeback for you.  I might even look like I don’t care.”  Dorian paused.  “Actually, at the time, I won’t care.  You’ll be partners with a stranger, man.”

“Well… so long as I get my Dorian back in the end?” John asked, terrified that it was even a question at all.

“You will.”

“Then I’m good.  We’re good.  I’ve got your back, D.”

Dorian answered by reaching out for John’s free hand and he didn’t let go until Rudy not only reentered the main lab but was gesturing Dorian up onto The Table.  Rudy’s blue eyes flicked away hastily, and -- despite being caught out -- John took a moment to squeeze Dorian’s fingers before letting his hand slide away.

It only took a few minutes to initiate whatever reprogramming that was supposed to make Dorian invisible to frequency scanners.  From the table (oops, The Table), Dorian watched with a pained expression as Rudy’s gloved hands sliced delicately into John’s upper arm.  The skin had only recently stopped feeling raw and achy -- tech-aided, accelerated healing aside -- after that fun little adventure with Lynch that had cost John his old locator chip.  In fact, John hadn’t even clocked the loss of it even though that little gadget had probably saved his life the day of the InSyndicate raid, broadcasting his exact location to first responders.

John blinked as he realized he’d never asked what had happened to the old chip.  Not that he was feeling sentimental about it or anything.  Dorian probably had it.  Because he was that sentimental and the tech was dated well past reuse anyway.

And now chip No. 2 was being retired.

At this rate, John would go through locator chips faster than he went through MXs.

Well.  How about that.

Yeah, his new chip hadn’t lasted long despite John’s grumbles about having it dug out every time Dorian had tracked him down.  John had come to depend on that tether between himself and Dorian.  He was already feeling adrift without it.

“Hey, you OK, D?” John asked Dorian, realizing that the DRN was probably going to be even more uncomfortable than John during this mission.

Dorian looked up into John’s gaze, but didn’t answer.  Right.  So that was a _****no.****_

Maybe it was a good thing that Dorian would be shutting off a bunch of programs.  Maybe the inclination to track John would be left by the wayside and Dorian would “forget” to worry about him.  Hell, this mission might end up being a kind of vacation for the DRN.  Lucky bastard.

John quirked his brows playfully.  “This might be a good time to introduce you to the Not My Job philosophy.”  He then glanced toward Rudy and mused, “Speaking of jobs, could we move this along?”

Rudy, enthralled by their byplay, quickly nodded, blotted at the trickle of blood oozing down John’s bicep, and took a shuddering breath.  “Right.  OK.  Then I’ll just--um.  Sorry.”

John’s jaw clenched shut as Rudy pried the locator chip free and pressed the skin back in place, leaving behind a dimple of sunken flesh.  Attractive.  Well, what was one more scar when John already had so many?

As Rudy transferred the locator chip to a saline solution, muttering, “Just a bit of time in the pool before we put you back where you belong,” John resisted the instinct to flex his arm and test the injury.  He doubted Dorian would appreciate the resulting gush of blood.  Even if it would look pretty cool.

John prodded: “Seal me up, Doctor Lom.  I’m pretty sure Dorian’s seen enough.”

He looked into Dorian’s eyes and summoned a smile because, yeah, John was thankful for that little chip and he appreciated the service its predecessor had performed.  John was glad that first responders had found him in the aftermath of the raid, glad he hadn’t died, glad he’d gotten to meet Dorian.  He really did want to be here, after all.

Wow.  An epiphany worth marking on the calendar.

Whatever Rudy was doing to Dorian’s active programs was finished by the time the surgical gloves were tossed into the nearest garbage can.  As Dorian closed his eyes to initiate a system reboot, John fished his phone out of his pocket, but hesitated to hand it over.

“Did you ever hear about the DRN at Saint Mary’s Hospital?  Ride-along Hell?”

Rudy sputtered a laugh.  “Oh-ho, did I ever!”  But then his brows twitched and he seemed more concerned than angry when he scolded, “You let Dorian get away with all sorts of shenanigans, John.”

John shrugged.  “Life lessons.”  For both of them.  “But this -- you should see this.”  He brought up the photo he’d captured from the screen of Costa’s phone.  “Look familiar?”

“Isn’t that the ID number of--oh.  Um.  Yes, yes, it does.”

“We know of four, all done by separate artists, in completely different areas of the city.”

“Well, but, what can I do unless... ah.  Yes.  I see.  If it concerns a DRN, I’ll probably be asked to consult at some point.”

John nodded.  “That DRN--”  He waved his phone in lieu of saying the numbers aloud.  “--has disappeared, by the way.”

“Reported missing?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“And he was involved in the surveillance on Councilman Billings and the captain.”

Rudy blinked.  “Because of potential changes to city policy regarding sentient androids.”

John nodded.  “Just--heads up, OK?  You should know the kind of shit storm you could be stepping into.”

“I… right.  Good to know.  All of it.”  He glanced behind him; Dorian’s eyes were still closed.  “He might be another minute.  Shall I set up the cot and charging pod?  It’d be best if you stayed here -- or at the precinct.  The precinct would be fine.  Less privacy, but fine.  Um.  Before you meet up with your contact.”

“Yeah,” John agreed.  “If we could borrow a quiet corner, that’d be great.”

John waited until Rudy had wound his way out of the cluttered lab toward the annex before he approached Dorian, standing close enough for the DRN to detect his body heat.  No more than ten seconds later, John felt a touch against his wrist and watched Dorian open his eyes.

“All quiet on the Western front?” he quietly teased.

“Too quiet,” Dorian replied, pressing his fingertips against John’s pulse.

“Hey.  If you need to scale down to the basics now, you can.  If it’s more comfortable.”

“It would be more comfortable,” Dorian admitted, “but I’d rather not.”

Yeah.  Because no matter how much it hurt, Dorian would choose to feel it.  It was what he’d been made for, after all.  Impulsively, John wedged himself between Dorian’s knees and slid the tip of his nose along the length of Dorian’s, lifting his hand to his partner’s cheek.  Beneath his palm, John felt the telltale tug of a brief but genuine smile.

“Rudy’s coming back.”

John stepped away, but didn’t shake off the light grip Dorian kept around his wrist.  Handing over his phone to Rudy, John then led the way to the annex, rotating his left arm at the shoulder.  Super glue was sorely underrated as a method of first aid.  John was tempted to slap some duct tape over it and double up his DIY field dressing points.

Dorian glanced at the surgery site and mused, “Sometimes Rudy uses super glue to fix me up, too.”

John huffed a laugh.  “Magic stuff, super glue.  Bridging the gap between people the world over.”


	7. 1900 Hours

John woke with a sense of déjà vu.  Dorian was groping his prosthetic shin again.

Dorian’s read-only memory files.  Still transmitting.   Shit.  One more thing that could be a problem on the other side of the Wall.

“Rudy hasn’t forgotten,” Dorian assured him, not even bothering to apologize, which cheered John immensely.  Because Dorian ought to feel welcome to touch his own lover wherever he liked, especially in moments of privacy.  “He’ll deactivate the transmitter before we leave.”

“How often do you need them?  Those memory files?  I mean, you don’t still rely on reminders, right?”

“I don’t.”  Dorian stepped smoothly out of the charging pod and John dropped his left foot over the side of the cot, making room for Dorian to sit down.  As the mattress sagged, John grimaced through a twinge deep in his pelvis.  Ah, the joys of being a middle-aged man with an athletic sex life.  Yup, he was going to be feeling it real soon.  He just hoped they weren’t going to expect him to repel over the Wall in a harness.  That would be… uncomfortable.  A “primal scream” on a scale of one-to-ten.

Dorian ran his palm up and down John’s synthetic shin.  “Mostly, the signal is background noise -- little more than a hum beyond three meters.  But I like that something of mine -- our moments -- are a part of you.”

“Yeah.  They’ll still be kicking around even if I lose track of my copies up here.”  He tapped his head.

“A guy with amnesia shouldn’t be joking around about dementia, John.  That’s just asking for trouble.”

“Trouble is my middle name.”

“In what language does ‘Reginald’ mean ‘trouble?’”

“In the Kennex Codex.”

“Sounds fascinating.  Where can I download a copy?”

John grinned.  “Sorry.  It’s an oral tradition.”

Dorian chuckled and leaned over John to steal a quick kiss.  “What does the name ‘Dorian’ mean?”

_****Life,****_  John almost said.   _ ** **A second chance.****_   But what he said was, “A pain in the ass.”

Dorian didn’t take offense.  “Luckily, you enjoy those.”

“With the exception of hemorrhoids, yeah, I do.”

One more kiss -- plunging tongues and fingers curling, tugging at locks of hair and -- Jesus, how was John supposed to let Dorian go?  He couldn’t.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he rasped against the DRNs lips.

“Of course not.  What would people say if they found out how much you’d missed me?”

Yes, God damn it.  John was going to miss him.  Way more than a lot.  “What would they say?  They’d tell me to get my ass to the firing range and work on my aim.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side, an indulgent and affectionate grin curling those expressive lips.

“Jesus, D.  Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like there’s something more to me than grumpy, morose, and malcontent.”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Well, I might… but you told me not to joke about going senile.”  John sat up and, cradling Dorian’s jaw, leaned in for a chaste but clinging kiss.  “Do me one favor?”

“Just one?”

“OK, two.”  When Dorian quirked a brow, John said, “Wait until we meet the other team members before you go into Power Save Mode.”  John wanted the men and women they’d be going into enemy territory with to know that there was a person worth protecting inside this DRN.  Not just ones and zeros.  “And second,” John continued, “promise me you’re going to make it back over the Wall.”

“I’ll be one step behind you, John.”

“As usual, then?” he joked because he had to.  Had to.

“Sure.  Whatever helps you sleep, man.”

Dorian brought in their gear while John collected his modified phone from Rudy.  “Capable of out-going transmissions only.  On a secure channel, of course.  The phone will display your GPS coordinates on screen, but you’ll have to say them aloud in order to communicate them.”  Placing the phone in John’s hand, Rudy cautioned, “Consider this a burner phone, John.  One use only.”

“Right.”  A second signal would only make their position easier to pinpoint, even without GPS.  He stood still as Rudy scooped up his tablet.

“Now for the leg…”

As his fingertips danced through the on-screen commands, John asked, “What made you put them in there in the first place?”

“Well.  Like your leg, Dorian’s memories are the property of the police department.  It wasn’t fair that they wouldn’t give them back to him.  The ones from before, I mean.  There’s no reason not to.  As I mentioned, his DF had gone wrong, but he wasn’t malfunctioning like the others.  And if he had been, he never would have been recommissioned.”

So not even the DRNs that had snapped had been wiped and given another shot.  Because the malfunction was systemic?  An actual and literal meltdown?  John probably wouldn’t understand the unabridged explanation, so he didn’t ask.  It wouldn’t matter, anyway.  Dorian was fine.

“I mean,” Rudy continued, making one final stab at the touch screen before placing the tablet aside.  “I would love to give Dorian back some of the memories of us hanging out in the lab--”

“Hey,” John interrupted, “if you did something like that--”

“I’d have a world of problems, wouldn’t I?”

“I was going to say,” John continued, “you wouldn’t be the only one in that boat.”

“Oh.  Oh?  Really?”

“You’d find yourself in good company.”  John shrugged.  “Up to you.”

The lab door slammed open.  “John!” Dorian shouted.

“Yeah?” John hollered back, bracing himself for God-only-knew-what.  But it was only Dorian, looking harried and toting both their packs.  Oh, hell.  John could guess what had set him off: “Rudy turned off the transmitter like you thought.  C’mon, take my pulse.”  He closed the distance between them, collected his gear and offered up the opposite wrist.  “Don’t waste power on a scan.  Jeez.”

“I can’t even use your locator chip to confirm that you’re still among the living.  I feel blind, John.  I don’t like it.”

“Yeah.  Who would?  Let’s get suited up.  It’s gonna take us half an hour to get there.”

“At least.  This is rush hour, man.”

They used the annex to change into tactical gear and stow supplies in their pockets.  Dorian was carrying a med kit and a field repair kit that included some kind of hand-held diagnostic gizmo and an activation wand.  There were some compact tools and a few bits of wire, bolts, and such.  Still…

“That can’t possibly be all you’re allowed to work with,” John coughed out in disbelief.

“It’s all that I’m able to transport while maintaining maximum maneuverability.”  He gave John a wry look.  “I can hardly haul around MX limbs.”

“Sure you could,” John argued because it had been a while since he’d argued with Dorian about something.  It felt like it’d been a while.  “Toss ‘em over the wall and haul ‘em behind you like a dogsled.”

“John, I’m well aware of what you’d like to do to MXs.  We’re talking about the field repair kit,” Dorian snarked back with delight.  “Which is sufficient to the task of making a moderately damaged MX field-worthy.”

“Yeah…”  He eyed the assortment of patch-up parts with skepticism.  It was either a statement on the durability of military-grade MXs or a hopeless nod to consumerism.  John didn’t have much faith in the former and he’d seen enough junked MXs (even added some to the scrapyard pile himself) to suspect that the latter was the actual case: MXs weren’t designed to be repaired -- they were meant to be recycled.  Any damage requiring more effort than Dorian was prepared to expend would be damage too great to fix.

_****This is the world we live in.****_   Yeah, John was inspired, all right.

He left his night vision goggles, rifle, spare clips of ammo, and tactical helmet in the bag for when he wouldn’t be trying to fold himself through the door of a sedan, and then added in his street clothes.  Dorian imitated him.  John wished he knew what circle of Hell they were heading into; the closest he’d ever come to this kind of mission were raids on gang holdings and black market activities.

He thought of the day he’d taken on InSyndicate.  Pelham’s sightless eyes.  Blank-minded confusion and ringing in his ears.  The taste of gunpowder and crumbled asphalt.

_****Never again,****_  he vowed and zipped the bag shut with enough angry force to make the zipper scream and fabric cough.  And then he looked up and met Dorian’s gaze.  With a nod toward the door, John signaled that it was time to go to work.

Rudy walked them to the door in silence and gave Dorian a hearty pat on his Kevlar-covered shoulder.  He even managed a shaky smile.  “Glad to see your partner’s finally taking decent care of you,” Rudy remarked, but there was no bite in it.  Only relief.

John said, “See you in a couple days.”

The drive to the contact point was silent.  The parking lot of the Precinct 12 station was shadowed.  Half of the cruisers were already out on the street and John didn’t care whose spot he took.

They finished suiting up out of the open trunk.  John tucked the goggles and helmet under his arm and made for the basement entrance.  Handed over his badge and ID for inspection.  “Detective John Kennex and DRN-0167 from Delta Division.”

A retina scan and pricked finger.  And then they were waved through the security checkpoint and directed past the armory to the locker room where their contact was already waiting.

John resisted the urge to check his wristwatch.  The clock on the wall said it was 7:09.  Clearly, it was fast.

A tall, dark-skinned woman in tactical gear nodded at their approach.  “Detective Kennex?”

He offered his hand and shook hers briefly.

“Commander Audrey Thompson.”

“Detective John Kennex,” he confirmed and then got the hell out of the way.  John wasn’t the guest of honor, after all.

Her sharp eyes focused on his partner.  She didn’t offer to shake hands.  “DRN, identify yourself.”

Somehow, John kept his mouth from twitching -- either into a scowl or a smirk.  Even odds on both, to be honest.  And watched the introductions unfold.

Extending his hand with a pleasant smile, John’s partner said, “DRN-0167, but please call me Dorian.  A pleasure to meet you, Commander Thompson.”

There was an awkward moment where Thompson clearly didn’t know what to make of him.  When John pointedly glanced from her to Dorian’s waiting hand, she seemed to snap back into the moment.

“I’m well, but eager to get underway.”

“Of course.  I apologize for our tardiness.”  He slid a glance toward John.  “Rush hour, man.”

“Yeah, yeah.  You told me so,” John grumbled on a resigned sigh.

Despite the fact that other people were waiting on them, ready to deploy, Thompson hesitated.  “Your interface is different from an MX.”

Dorian beamed and teased John.  “Hear that, John?  The commander didn’t even need a lecture.”

John knocked his fist against the DRN’s shoulder.  “Rub it in later, will you?  We’ve got places to be.”  He gestured for Dorian to go ahead of him.  It would give him the chance to flesh out this very important first impression with the second-in-command.

“I appreciate your observation, Commander, but once we’re in the field, I think you’ll find that I behave very similarly to the MXs you work with.”

“Is that typical of a DRN?”

“No.  I’ll be shutting down several operations, including my colloquialism routine, in order to preserve power.  I’m not expecting to have the chance to charge until we’ve completed our mission and reported back.”

Thompson nodded, still looking a bit taken aback at Dorian’s sincerely friendly demeanor.  “To be perfectly honest with you, several of our team members are fairly new to the unit.  They’ve been known to get frustrated with the MXs -- having never worked with them before.”

“No one has destroyed any MXs out of aggravation, have they?”

“I beg your pardon.”

John had his glower ready when Dorian glanced back with a smirk.  “No one has, say, shot an MX in the face or pushed an MX out of a moving car and into traffic?”

Great, now Thompson was giving John an affronted look.

“Dude,” John protested, “quit showing off to your new friend.”

“What am I showing off, John?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe the fact that you’ve survived working with me for more than a day?”

“A feat which few MXs can lay claim to.”

Few.  That was generous.  John was aware of exactly how many MXs had survived a full workday in John’s immediate vicinity: none.  At least outside of the precinct building.  And their survival rate was higher indoors because Maldonado would take John’s gun away from him if he discharged it at the office without, y’know, an InSyndicate assault to justify it.

John rolled his eyes.  “Yeah.  OK.  I’ve got a regular fan club.  Real exclusive and cozy.”

They were now coming up on an exit that looked vaguely familiar.  Although there were no signs posted indicating where it led, John suspected this was one of the underground walkways to the nearest watch command tower.  In the event of riots, biological, or chemical attacks, police could answer the watch commander’s call for reinforcements.  John had twice had the honor, but not via Precinct 12.  Still, there were only so many ways to engineer facilities like this on a city budget.  Creativity didn’t really factor in.

They paused long enough to be vetted by security and buzzed through and then came the long, long, long concrete tunnel.  The sound of the heavy fire door swinging shut behind them -- locking them in and committing them to one direction -- sent a chill down John’s spine.

Jesus.  How could he possibly be having a bad feeling about this mission so soon?

“John?”

“I’m good, D.  Full speed ahead.”

Had they been alone, Dorian would have pointed out -- in detail -- each and every stress indicator that his scans could pick up and then John would have told him to knock it off, Dorian would have argued, John would have relented and admitted (just for the sake of moving things along) that he hated having no cover and no alternate exits.  They were mice in the plumbing right now, damn it.

But they weren’t alone, so none of that was said aloud.  Dorian’s gait didn’t even hitch with hesitation as they hurried to their destination.  Though John felt momentarily better for having talked it out inside his own head, the prickly feeling of a cold shadow dogging their heels quickly sapped what little calm he’d managed to gather.

By the time they reached the checkpoint in the basement of the watch tower, John wasn’t putting any effort whatsoever into faking his scowl.  Oh, no.  This bad boy was the real deal.

Again, they were directed through the blast door and into a gloomy, unadorned cement cube of a lobby.  There was an elevator and an emergency ladder in the place of a stairwell.

They took the elevator.

“Commander,” Dorian said, gently bending the silence.  “I’d appreciate access to any intel that could help me anticipate difficulties.”

“Of course.  Petty Officer Gomez will sort you out.”

“Thank you.”

And then the cab was slowing to a halt and the doors were opening and it was time to meet the rest of the team.  It was the first day of school all over again.  Yay.


	8. Team Meeting

Watching a bunch of Navy SEALs try to figure Dorian out was a hoot.  Way better than John’s first day of school.  Better than his first day back on the force and saving the God damn day.  (Well, OK.  Saving the day had been pretty awesome.  An angry and vindicated sort of awesome because, yeah, Detective Vogel and Sargent Patel.  And there John halted his train of thought.  But still, that first couple of hours following Day One registration had been all kinds of awful and awkward.  Totally worthy of John’s public voice and trying-too-hard smile.)

The military-issue MXs were lined up along the far wall, staying out of the way until it was time to move out.  Their designers had used a vaguely unsettling, nondescript face, each one perfectly identical to the next.  They looked like store mannequins.  The kind that made customers shudder and head for the food court to mingle with the ketchup-smeared masses.

“You’re wondering about the reason behind the face, right?” Thompson said quietly from John’s left.  She’d facilitated the introductions, but now that Dorian was busy dissecting the maps Gomez had provided and generally grilling the poor guy on every topographical detail, she seemed to be babysitting John.  Since John was Dorian’s backup, he didn’t really have cause to complain.  If someone had a job for him to do, they’d let him know.

Thompson said, “It was a trade-off.  Less human in appearance but enhanced camouflage capabilities.  The skin can project varying brightness and a limited range of color.”

“Huh.  OK.  That would come in handy in a war zone.”

She nodded and John thought it was interesting that she didn’t scoff at his choice of words.  Surely she’d seen more dangerous situations than what awaited them on the other side of the Wall, but she was still giving the risks the respect they were due.  John decided he liked that.

“Hey, Detective!” one of the enlisted officers jovially called out.  His name was Konechny.  “Can we borrow Dorian for a bit after this mission?  He’ll be a big hit back at base.”

 _ ** **Get your own DRN,****_  John thought but said, “I’ll give you the same answer he just did: take it up with Captain Maldonado.”

Wilson looked confused.  “I thought he was yours.  Isn’t that why you’re coming along?”

Giving this jerk an icy look would be very satisfying… for all of five seconds.  Dorian would probably enjoy it, too.  Which was why John was putting in for a Nobel peace prize just for strangling back the impulse.  “We’re both cops, Wilson.  If you and Konechny want a pet, there’s a guy that sells goldfish on the street corner.”

That last bit he delivered with a waggle of his brows, making both men snort with humor and a third, Choo, tease, “Oh, man.  He totally knows how much pay we take home.”

“Yeah, like your haircut wasn’t a dead give-away,” Wilson jibed.

“At least I got hair,” the Asian man accused, not even bothering to glare at Wilson’s shaved head.

“You got skull envy, Chewy.”

“Call me that again and you’ll be changing your name to ‘Wil- _ ** **daughter.’”****_

Gomez brayed a laugh.

Thompson let them go and John could see the benefit in allowing the new members to blow off a little steam and work out some jitters.  It could be days before they finally clocked out and were able to let loose without worrying about being shot at.

John thought about mentioning Dorian’s criticism -- well, the comments -- aimed at John’s hairstyle.  But, no.  No need to disrupt what was clearly a well-established dynamic.  Dorian must have come to the same conclusion because he merely smirked at John in silence, glancing up to John’s hair and ruefully shaking his head.

“Dorian doesn’t like your hair?” Thompson coughed out on a quiet burble.

“Nope.  Never has,” John admitted.  “Not sure what we’d talk about between cases if it ever grows on him.”

She chuckled and Dorian’s gaze skipped her way.  John wished they weren’t across the room from each other.  In fact, he wished it were just D and him so that he could tease, _****Hey, who’re you going home with after this, superstar?****_

And then Dorian would beam and say something rude and irreverent, like: _****The guy with the worst haircut.****_

And because John hated to let him have the last word, he’d take the hit and own it: _****That John Kennex is a lucky guy.****_   Yeah, he’d be the guy with the worst haircut -- hell, he’d even put up with being called “lucky” instead of the far more accurate “cursed” or “doomed” or “damned” -- if it meant being with Dorian.  In a heartbeat.

Dorian had a few more questions -- confirming basic patrol maneuvers favored by the human soldiers and specs on their weapons plus an ammo count -- and there was a bit more banter that bounced around between the four younger men, and then Dorian was making his way back to John.

“Anything I can do to lighten the load?” John asked before Dorian started in on giving orders.  Not that it wouldn’t be sexy, but he couldn’t fully appreciate it in this setting.

Dorian eyed the eight MXs standing at attention.  “Nothing we haven’t already discussed.”

 _ ** **Oh?  When was this, exactly?****  _ John bit down on the snark.  “So, just the usual smooth moves I do that save your hide, huh?”

“Yes, John.  Absolutely,” Dorian deadpanned.

“I think I can--”  John’s assurance was cut off as the elevator dinged and the officer in charge, Natsuko Adachi, emerged with the night shift watch commander, a man with the unfortunate name of Charles Cocolle (and John would have bet money that people in the other watch towers referred to him and this one as “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”).

“Detective Kennex,” the man greeted, offering his hand as Commander Adachi roused her troops into order.

“Captain Cocolle.  Been a while.”

“It has.  Good to see you again.  Especially when it’s not under threat of breach.”

John could only agree.  “This is Dorian,” he said, doing the honors, “and if I make it back here without him, Captain Maldonado will tell you to toss me back over the Wall.”

“I don’t doubt that would be a preferable fate,” he remarked.  Because he’d worked with Sandra during the riots at the Wall, side by side commanding their people through the chaos.  Colleagues-in-arms.  So he knew that disappointing Captain Maldonado carried with it a fate worse than death.  “Never had a bad thing to say about any of the DRNs.  You, on the other hand…” the man drawled and John huffed.

“Right.  ‘Famous’ is part-and-parcel of ‘infamous.’”

Dorian laughed.

John rolled his eyes.  “Figures you’d enjoy that one.”

“At your expense?  Definitely, man.”

Yeah, Cocolle thought that was pretty funny.  Dorian was a bonafide riot.

“John,” Dorian said and where most people would hear a conversational tone, John sensed a subdued quality that could only mean one thing.

“Is this the part where I get a break from your heckling?”

Dorian’s lips quirked.  “It is.”

John took a deep breath, puffing up his chest.  “My vacation officially begins.”

“Sure it does.  Send me a postcard.”

A postcard.  Right.  Because they were working and surrounded by people and unless John figured out how to stop time, there was no way to squeeze in a kiss for luck.  Not even a hug.

It wasn’t fair.

But John kept his mouth shut and watched as “Dorian” faded from the DRN’s eyes and face.  The telltale crease at the corner of his mouth -- because when was Dorian not laughing at John? -- smoothed out.  The soft quality in his gaze emptied.  The program that reminded Dorian to breathe or tilt his head -- the little things that soothed the human subconscious and made Dorian seem more friend than “other” -- shut off.  And suddenly, startlingly -- even though the process had occurred gradually enough for John to chart it in between blinks -- John was face-to-face with an MX in a DRN’s body.

This was going to give him nightmares.  He could feel it.

Thompson activated the MXs with a voice command.

Adachi gave the order to move out.

Looked like John was the last one to get his shit together and stow his baggage.

_****Time to work.** ** _

So he did.

Cocolle led them to the departure point, a seemingly random spot along the Wall.  The buildings along the street below looked just as ill-maintained as all the rest still standing on this side and in the dark.

“Stay alert and scan for traps,” Cocolle warned.  “It’s been six hours since we’ve recorded any activity in the area.”

And somebody was usually picked up on infrared at least once every two days.  Shuffling along.  Aimless.  Distracting.  Yeah, what was the left hand doing while the right hand was drawing attention?  John wanted to know what was really going on out here, sure: what was it that the denizens didn’t want the watch command to see?  He wasn’t terribly eager to meet it face-to-face, though.  But they might not have a choice in the matter.

Adachi motioned for her troops to suit up before handing Dorian a pair of harnesses for repelling.

Repelling.  Of course they were repelling over the God damn Wall.  Because John’s luck really was that great.

Dorian didn’t inform John that he would be guiding him down.  Not with words.  It became pretty obvious when Dorian cinched their harnesses together and snapped a single cord onto the D-ring between them.  The silence was eerie, but Dorian’s outline in the darkness was familiar and, in the end, John decided that having to listen to a monotone demanding his compliance would have been too much.

John snapped on his night vision goggles and tactical helmet, and then he resolved to enjoy the ride.  Like any other dyed-in-the-wool masochist.

The rope unspooled without even a hiss of friction as Dorian pushed them out into the void.  John didn’t even try to lessen his grip on Dorian’s neck and torso.  His nether regions throbbed, enthusiastically used muscles straining and aching from the stress, turning on him to stab even deeper than seemed possible, but he didn’t make a sound.

A flicker flashed at the corner of his eye: their reflection in a strangely unbroken window on the third floor of an office building across the wide street.  John didn’t hunt for the look on Dorian’s face.  All he really noted was the lack of disco lights.  Rudy had disconnected the visual evidence of Dorian’s processors at work in order to make him less conspicuous.

John missed those blue lights.  The green, yellow, orange, and silver ones, too.  He missed them all.  Hell, they were ten damn minutes into the mission and he was homesick for his partner.

Ridiculous.

He hardened himself against disappointment, firmly told himself that he had no expectations except to get the job done and get back to the precinct, and then his feet touched cracked pavement.

John followed the example of his human teammates, lifting his arms up and nimbly stepping out of the harness so that his android partner could soundlessly disassemble it.  It only took half a minute (twenty-eight seconds because, yes, John was counting) for Dorian to fold up and stow both harnesses and the cord.

John used the time to shoulder his rifle and scan the shadows.

Nothing moved.

Then a hand pressed between John’s shoulder blades and Dorian was falling into formation with the MXs, John covering the rear.

There was no traffic.  No voices.  No music.  Only the wind occasionally shifted the stifling silence aside, scraping ice-chilled claws across the back of John’s neck as he traversed the street.  The team split up in order to clear several structures at once, searching for hiding places and underground tunnels, surveillance tech and signs of habitation.

John followed Dorian across the weathered threshold of a dilapidated convenience store, passing through the gaping maw of a doorway and feeling the gloom swallow him whole.

Jesus.

It was going to be a long fucking mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In “Blood Brothers,” Ethan Avery makes a comment about a situation at the Wall and Sandra Maldonado answers that she “came out of that all right.” So that’s what I’m thinking of when John’s reflecting on how Charles Cocolle and Sandra Maldonado know each other.
> 
> John lists two cops who died in the Pilot episode: Detective Vogel and Sargent Vera Patel, but two other police officers were killed during the suspect transfer to the safe house (when InSyndicate came back for Trevor Janns, who had shot himself in the leg in order to get arrested and taken to the precinct for questioning… remember him planting a device in the men’s restroom that helped Reinhardt disable the MXs??) and there was a fifth officer (unnamed but in uniform) that Reinhardt took out in the precinct stairwell using the Myklon Red gas.
> 
> The names of the Navy SEALs are inspired by several actors from the TV show: Adachi (Sargent Vera Patel, Pilot), Wilson (MX-43 “3”), and Konechny (MX-43 “1”). In my head, the character “Choo” vaguely resembles the actor who played MX-43 “2”, Darren E. Scott. Audrey Thompson shares a family name with the actor who played Nico (Disrupt), Reese Thompson, although obviously they aren’t meant to look alike at all. Gomez is the only Navy SEAL who is completely original (although I noticed that other officers such as “Martinez” (Pilot) and “Hernandez” (Unbound) are mentioned, so I guess he’s inspired by them).


	9. First Contact

It was quiet.  Too quiet as dawn speared through the streets and avenues, poked between the buildings, and poured over the Wall.  Welcome to the sum total of the universe.  The world as it existed for John and Dorian, the Navy SEALs and their MXs.  They were isolated.  On alien soil.  Alone.

And it was way too God damn quiet.

John’s skin itched as paranoia paced up and down his spine, whispering: they were on the verge of walking into an ambush… or they were so far away from their objective that they weren’t even a threat to whoever currently held the upper hand on InSyndicate’s turf.

John couldn’t decide which scenario was worse.  The first one was bad for obvious reasons of mortal peril.  The second was bad because they were on a schedule and the clock was ticking.

If they hadn’t had a specific target complete with grid coordinates -- Anna’s contribution to this delightful venture -- he would have been running off of pure panic.

Not that it wouldn’t come to that anyway.  Eventually.  Historically proven fact.

_****This is a trap.** ** _

It might be.  But he reminded himself that Anna had had no reason to lie after Vaughn had been apprehended.  Of course, she’d also betrayed John and tried to kill him despite seeming to like him a whole hell of a lot, so that would be… what, a fifty-fifty chance of finally earning himself an epitaph out here?  In the middle of no man’s land on the other side of the looking glass.

The thought would have made him laugh before.  Before Dorian had tricked him into wanting his next breath.  Into rolling out of bed by habit instead of in resignation.

It was kind of a shame.  He could use a laugh right now.  Inappropriate or otherwise.

John finished his scan of the street and, when the motion brought Dorian into his line of sight, John didn’t look away.  He scanned the DRN, not just to check that Dorian was holding up all right -- he undoubtedly was -- but to _****see****_ him.

Whether John liked it or not, this emotionless, military mode was an aspect of his DRN partner.  Maybe it wasn’t what Dorian wanted to be, but it was what he _****could****  _be.  This side of him was just as real as his indulgent grins and playful banter, and John was too jaded to blissfully ignore the things that were upsetting or unattractive in his lover.  Bad habits, quirks, flaws, and rough edges.  Being _****with****  _someone meant accepting their most undesirable traits and asking the most ruthless of questions: _****Can I work with this?****_

“D,” John called softly.  “What’s your charge?”

“Seventy-eight percent.”

“Copy that,” John acknowledged, pushing the words over a tongue that felt sticky and wanted to curl in on itself.

Dorian was still in there, behind the flat gaze and unfeeling tone, trusting John to help keep him safe.  John likened it to being back in his coma.

_****“I really hope there’s someone there to wake me up again.”** ** _

The words shoved a shiver through John’s aching shoulders.  Because he knew that this time Dorian’s prayer would be more like “I really hope I _****will****  _wake up again.”

If anything happened to the DRN while they were out here…

John wrenched his thoughts away from that dark spiral with gritted teeth.

And then, thankfully, a whisper in John’s ear via comm: “Tracks ahead,” Gomez reported.

They were getting closer to civilization after all.  Or whatever passed for it out here.  Hallelujah.

Adachi responded, “Fall back to Konechny’s position everyone.  Rack time.”

Rest.  Yeah.  This might be their last chance before push came to shove came to screaming battle cry.  John found himself in Thompson’s team guarding the ground-level, rear entrance of a gutted night club.  Adachi, Wilson, Choo, and four MXs were up in the VIP loft that overlooked the front.  John ploughed through his MRE without tasting it.  Dorian would have made fun of him: _****“Every bite, hm?  Nuri would be thrilled.”****_

_****“Hey.  It’s just good manners.”** ** _

_****“There’s nothing good about the way you eat, man.  Although it’s funny to hear you using the word ‘manners’ in a sentence.”** ** _

_****“You’re just being mean to me because you can’t eat.”** ** _

_****“No, I’m ‘being mean’ to you because you like it.  And it amuses me.”** ** _

Case in point: here he was imagining Dorian being a shit and, yes, it was making John feel better.  Jesus.

John exhaled slowly, his elbow brushing against Dorian’s sleeve.  He offered, “I’ll take first watch.  Power down for two hours.”

Dorian complied without a single comment or objection.  Damn it.

John hadn’t felt this lost and adrift in a long time.

“You two been partners a while, huh?” Konechny whispered.  Thompson and Gomez were already catching some Z’s.

John replied, “Hasn’t been a year.”

“You work with other DRNs like him?”

“I’ve meet one other DRN.  Not like him, though.”

Konechny frowned.  “With a different face, you mean?”

“No.  They all -- the first fleet -- look alike.  But it’s easy to tell the difference.”

“Yeah?  How?  Their uniforms?”

“No.”  John quirked a brow.  “Body language, micro-expressions -- I’m not a detective because I found a badge in a box of Cracker Jacks, pal.”

Konechny snorted.  “Yeah, OK.  Fair enough.  Maybe that’s why I can’t tell the MXs apart.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to,” John reasoned.

Police MXs were on a constant service rotation based on their charging cycles, so it was pretty unlikely that a human officer would form an attachment to one unit in particular.  Losing an MX in the line of duty -- wasn’t that supposed to be a less traumatic experience for the human half of the equation than losing a flesh-and-blood partner?  Merciful by comparison?

But if a human police officer happened to develop any warm and fuzzy feelings for an MX, then wouldn’t that goodwill be extended to all of them?  Subconsciously?  Since there wasn’t supposed to be any appreciable difference from one unit to the next -- the data gathered by one was instantly accessible to all.

_****I guess that’s what they call a win-win.** ** _

Unless the cop in question was a hardened, mistrustful, paranoid cynic like John.

Since Konechny looked to be on the verge of venting smoke from his ears, John obligingly explained, “You either like and respect the work they do for you, or you don’t shed any tears when one bites the dust.”

“Huh,” the ensign mused, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek.  “Makes sense.”

Yeah.  As much as anything did these days.

“So if cops have MXs, how’d you end up with a DRN?”

John smirked.  “That story will cost you at least one beer.”

The young man nodded on a silent chuckle.  “Hoo-rah.”

Two uneventful hours later, John felt a tap on his shoulder.  Dorian relieved him in silence and, with a sigh, John rolled up against the grimy wall and closed his eyes.

A hard shake woke him.  John lurched upright, yanking his assault rifle over his shoulder, as Dorian calmly said, “Hostiles moving in.”

The MXs stationed as lookouts must have detected armed individuals taking up offensive position on the main street.

“Lead the way.”

John forced his stiff muscles to take him out the door and down the alleyway, into another building.  He saw no movement aside from their team, which would normally be a good thing.  Unless they were being herded.  Lambs to slaughter.

His grip tightened around the weapon in his grasp.  Not in desperation, no.  In defiance.

Shots broke out just as John identified the shop they were carefully navigating as a stripped-down bridal boutique.  Gomez and Choo ducked into fitting rooms that no longer had either doors or the hinges to hold them up.  Thompson and Wilson crouched on the office threshold.  Adachi and Konechny took cover behind the cash register counter.  The MXs charged forward, heading straight for the blown-out display windows and Dorian was right behind them.  So John was right behind him.

Six precise shots -- the MXs, partially shielded by the door and window frames, returned fire.  And then, silence.  John heard a muffled _****thud!****  _in the distance.

“Enemy neutralized,” one of the androids reported.

As Adachi signaled for the team to reform, John stayed put, skin tight and senses itching.  That had been too easy.  Mere potshots.  In order to get a headcount.

Or had the assailants assumed they were facing off against a rival gang?  If that was the case, then it didn’t appear they’d expected to encounter much resistance.  Too bad for them.

Still, John wasn’t keen to kick back and wait for the sequel.

“Adachi,” John spoke over his shoulder, eyes still trained on the street past Dorian.  “Dorian and I can ID known members.”

“Take two MXs with you.”  She then waved for her team to take up tactical positions, moving north along the abandoned shops.

John dashed across the street with his gaze trained on the rooftops.  No movement.

He almost stumbled on the broken curb and ended up diving shoulder-first into the wall beside the long-ago shattered windows of what might have once been a jewelry store or pawn shop.  He looked up the street and down.  It was noon.  Cloudy.  No shadows to enlarge distant targets.  It worked for them and against them.  John’s gut couldn’t decide between cramping up or making room for a deep breath.

He kept his gun up, snugly tucked against his upper torso, and backed into the space left in Dorian’s wake.  One of the shooters was upstairs.  A kid.  Barely old enough to have whiskers on his pimply chin.

John didn’t need Dorian to give a flat report of no match to know that this boy wasn’t InSyndicate.  Not the InSyndicate that terrorized the city on the other side of the Wall.  But John didn’t doubt that this teen must have been the breadwinner in his family.  Because people didn’t risk the climb over the Wall for peep shows and fried noodles.  Sandra had been right about the intel: the gangs controlled the resources over here.  Tech, definitely.  Electricity, probably -- although where they were getting it from and how were still unknowns.  Medical care and food and shelter… yeah, John would bet that whoever lived on gang turf was expected to pull their weight.

Dorian, crouching beside the corpse, tugged a hair from the boy’s scalp and then ran a hand from one knee to the sole of a worn boot that had to be two sizes too big.  His father’s, maybe.  John didn’t think he’d inherited them due to retirement.

“Steel dust,” the DRN said, “and soil components consistent with subway tunnels.”

Which meant it was time to find a way underground.

“Copy that, DRN,” Adachi said over the comm channel.  “Phase Two, everyone.”

Phase Two.  Right.  John told himself this was good.  This was progress.

It also meant there was going to be a lot more shooting.

He sucked in a steadying breath and stood, patting D on the shoulder.  His partner didn’t respond in kind, but that was OK.  Rain check.


	10. Underground

Gomez chose a subway entrance that had no footprints in the vicinity.  They’d passed up three others due to signs of recent traffic and John’s shoulders were itching with tension.  Burning with it.  But he wasn’t here to make tactical decisions.  The strike team knew how to hunt.  They knew when to attack and when to evade.  Enemy territory was their office and Adachi’s people specialized in this sort of maneuvering.

Or so one would think.

He would say this, though: Gomez sure knew his maps.  The man didn’t even have to consult the database cuff strapped to his forearm before signaling the MXs to move in and scan for signs of life or traps.

“Life signs, negative,” one of the androids reported back over the comm.  “Power source detected.  Stand by.”

John waited, covering the street behind them as the robots took care of business.  Dorian stayed at his side, scanning the immediate vicinity.

Nothing moved.  Not even the shadows between the grimy, gray buildings.

“Threat neutralized.”

John sneered.  Maybe they should just announce themselves with fireworks and the William Tell Overture?

But there was method in this stupidity.  Of course there was.  Gomez and Thompson gestured for two MXs to remain behind with them above ground; they would be taking another route in.  Probably one that had shown signs of recent activity.  Once Adachi’s team inevitably drew the attention of the local gang, the other entrances would probably be left with little more than a skeleton crew to guard them.  Hell, Gomez and Thompson might just have the place all to themselves.

Adachi’s team was the obnoxious diversion.  Good thing John knew how to be really annoying.

No time like the present.

He snapped the helmet’s gas mask over the lower half of his face and charged down the steps into the gloom, his goggle lenses adjusting automatically to the dimming light.  Aside from the power source -- _****the trap****_  -- that the MXs had detected and deactivated, there was no other sign of tech in the dingy corridors.  The old subway atrium was echoingly vacant.  Slots where ticket machines had once sat now gaped dark and hollow like missing teeth in a skeletal smile.

John kept pace with Dorian as they soundlessly swept deeper into the old subway system.  Everything of possible use -- from the posters on the walls to the light fixtures overhead -- had been scavenged.  Which was why the sight of the perfectly intact turnstiles was setting off alarm bells between John’s ears and that itch between his shoulders flared like a vicious rug burn.

Adachi held up a fist in the darkness.  Signaled for Konechny and Wilson to standby.  John found a wall to hug.  Adachi and Choo both tapped the sides of their helmets; the smart money was on them disengaging their night vision and putting up flare filters.  Just in case the enemy had flood lights pointed straight at them, finger poised over the ON switch.

And then the MXs approached the turnstiles.

John ordered himself to breathe.

And then--

A flash of white.

Smoke -- no -- _****gas****_  pluming into the eye-watering blast.

A low pulse of energy throbbed, pressing against John’s sternum, and the MXs listed forward and then crumpled.

_****Shit.  EMP.** ** _

And then bullets started flying.

John shoved Dorian’s shoulder, pushing the DRN down before John returned fire.  A clear shot was impossible regardless of his tactical goggles’ infrared lenses; the smoke turned all heat signatures into hazy blobs that rendered laser sights useless.  Not that that would stop John from squeezing off round after round.

_****Bang!** ** _

_****Bang!  Bang!  Bang!** ** _

And then he was dodging returning fire: _****ratta-ratta-ratta--!****_

The high pitched _****zzzziiiip!****  _of a near miss and John found himself getting a closeup of the grimy floor, blinking against the swirling gas, trying to figure out if it was him that was blurry or the rest of the world.

He shifted to roll over onto his belly to aim and fire--

A hand clamped onto his shoulder just as the left side of his ribcage exploded with agony.

“Stay down,” Dorian instructed, crouching over him, and John realized there was a countdown beeping at him in his earpiece.

“Reload!” Adachi called out.

And instant later, Wilson shouted, “I’m out!”

This was the plan.  Make the enemy complacent, draw them in…

John tapped Dorian’s back just as the countdown finished and, quick as a rattlesnake strike, Dorian was gone.  Winding his way through the mist toward the downed MXs.

Some InSyndicate goon hollered, “Drop your weapons.  Hands up high.  Now!”

John decided to stay where he was.  And keep his gun.  For sentimental reasons, yeah?

Adachi answered by opening fire.  Another volley of bullets pinging and cracking and ricocheting in the tiled atrium.  Concrete exploded three feet in front of John’s nose.  Screaming ribs or not, it was time to move.

Jaw clenched, he rolled toward the wall and up onto his knees, gasping for breath through the helmet’s air mask.

 _ ** **Armor-piercing rounds,****_  he figured.  There wasn’t much else that could get past his vest.  Shy of a bazooka missile.

Kneeling on one creaky knee and bracing his elbow on the other, he sighted into the swirling smoke--

_****Bang!** ** _

_****Bang!  Bang!** ** _

Gunshots from behind had John flattening himself against the wall as he swung around, looking for a target--

A shout.  Wilson barked, “Man down!”

Adachi kept on firing.  Probably covering Choo as he dashed across the atrium to deliver aid and ammo to his comrades.

John slid along the wall, returning fire as he closed the distance between himself and Adachi.

The _****pop!****_  and punch of bullets anchored him in the moment, in the darkness.  But the smoke -- the way it swirled and plumed -- disoriented.  It was just like the raid: dark figures in the distance.  Anna and the grenade beeping, beeping, _****beeping!****_

“John.”  Dorian’s voice over the comm cut through the building panic, disrupting the chirping tone and John shook himself.

Not a grenade.  No, it was the second countdown.  Right.  Right, OK.  John wrestled himself out of that dark, doomed alley and gritted his teeth against the pain -- his leg _****(no, no, the leg is fine!)****  _or his ribs _****(deal with it later!)****_  -- he honestly didn’t have the presence of mind to separate either agony, be it real or imagined, from the heart-pounding rush of adrenalin.

“Reload!” he called.

“I’m out!” Choo warned.

The voice came again: “You are surrounded.  Surrender.”

Adachi paused as any leader would to evaluate the available options.  “OK!  OK, we’re lowering our weapons.  Stand down, men!”

In the terrible silence that followed, John resisted the urge to check his side.  Either he was bleeding or he wasn’t.  Not much he could do about it either way.

He panted, pulse pounding as footsteps shuffled closer.  Yeah, they’d been flanked all right.

Four figures swooped out of the swirling haze, encircling and pointing assault rifles at John and Adachi.

“These two will do,” one masked figure assessed.  “Get rid of the others.”

A final _****beep!****  _in John’s earpiece had him ducking toward Adachi as shadows coalesced the mist and the reactivated MXs converged on the gloating enemy.

There was a shout, a single gunshot, a chorus of crunched vertebrae -- one, two-three, four, five, six-seven-eight! -- and then silence.  It was over in a heartbeat.

“Enemy neutralized,” an MX announced flatly.  Another said, “Prisoner in custody.”

“Lock and load, boys,” Adachi ordered and they moved out.  Over the unguarded turnstiles and out onto the platform where the machines spewing gas into the atrium were efficiently destroyed.

“Scanning for power sources and enemy activity.  Stand by,” an MX announced.

Against his better judgement, John took a moment to evaluate the perp in custody.  No, not perp -- _****prisoner.****  _ Yeah, that was one more action item on the checklist that John had been shown.  And by the look of her, the MXs had chosen the perfect one.  She was small.  Petite.  Yeah, John supposed that was the right word.  Probably not a day over sixteen.

Of course InSyndicate (or one of their scumbag rivals) would throw a kid like her into a gunfight.  Of course they would.  Knowing what other tech she was probably toting sub-dermally pushed John’s anger into the red zone.

A hand on his arm.  Dorian.  Yeah, D didn’t like this part of the plan, either, but it wasn’t their call to make.  None of it was.

“John,” he prompted quietly.  John tried to ignore the flat tone, the complete lack of familiarity in the DRN’s inflection.  “Do you require medical attention for your side?”

Well now, that was one surefire way to keep John from going nuclear.  “I dunno.  It hurts.”  A lot, now that he was focused on it.  Oh, happy day.

“Tile shrapnel,” Dorian assessed following a brief pause for a diagnostic scan, “and shattered rebar from a stray bullet.  Indirect hit.  You have a contusion.”

A bruise, huh?  Didn’t feel like it, but this DRN wasn’t programmed to pull John’s leg. “Thanks, Doctor D.”

“Remain still.”

John blinked at the sudden tugging sensation on his vest -- Dorian pulling the culprits out.  Damn.  John hadn’t thought a ricochet would have the velocity to lodge into Kevlar.  Just what the hell kind of ammo was this gang using?  One thing was for sure -- if John received a direct hit, he wouldn’t have time to figure it out.  Something that powerful would drop him instantly.

“Thanks,” John muttered, half appreciative of the assistance and half sarcastic with regards to the hard truth he’d just learned.  “Are you hit, Dorian?”

“Negative.”

Negative.  Yeah, that was a good thing.  One positive amid the brewing storm of shit.


	11. Pushback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter might be upsetting because this is a war zone and all.

_****Ratta-ratta-ratta--!** ** _

_****Bang-bang!  Bang!** ** _

Sonuvabitch.

John couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t have a love-hate relationship with being right.  At the moment, he was really hating it.

Not that anybody gave a damn.

Not that anybody had bothered to ask John if he’d agreed with Adachi and Thompson’s plan to acquire a prisoner.  He’d thrown his two cents in, nonetheless: these SEALs, as capable as they were, just couldn’t fully appreciate the devious, underhanded scumbag tactics that InSyndicate and InSyndicate-wannabe gangs were capable of.  And if they did get it -- really and truly get it -- then John wondered how they could look at themselves in the mirror.

“Give them an in and it won’t just be us at risk,” John had warned during the briefing.

And now here they were: pinned down by gunshots, amplified and echoing, in these twisting subway maintenance tunnels.  What a lovely bonus.  If only all field trips could be this much fun.

The team was cut off from either advance or retreat.  Sitting ducks.  And InSyndicate didn’t care if their teenage “comrade” was caught in the crossfire.

_****I Goddamn told you so.** ** _

Yup, he’d called it, all right.  And sure, who didn’t enjoy a little vindication now and then?  But in John’s case, that meant being right when he’d pessimistically estimated that things would go to shit.  All because of their “prisoner” who undoubtedly had a sub-dermal tracking device that InSyndicate was monitoring.  Following the team’s progress.  Tightening the noose with every step.

John didn’t have to like that this was all part of the plan.  He didn’t have to like that they’d anticipated InSyndicate’s methods so well.  He didn’t have to like InSyndicate’s methods at all.  John’s job was to cover Dorian and get him back over the Wall in one piece.

A goal that was looking less and less likely by the minute as the firefight dragged out.  No one called out obvious messages of distress now as there was little chance that the same deception would work a second time.  The team fell back on code:

Need to reload?  “Omega One!” was the call, counting up to the final clip of ammunition: five.

“Charlie!  Charlie!” meant a man was down.

Thank God John hadn’t heard that one blaring from his earpiece.

They had to assume that the channel was being monitored by a short-range frequency scanner.  And they weren’t about to give InSyndicate any more free passes at taking potshots.  This was it.  It was time to push back.  All they needed now was a kidney shot to win this round.

The enemy got in an uppercut first, though.

A clatter -- several heavy metal objects tumbling out of the smoke-smeared darkness -- and John didn’t need the MXs to finish their scans to recognize the sound of grenades tumbling toward them.

“Explosive devices!”

The two nearest MXs dove forward to meet them, to shield the team from the full blast.  John was slammed down against the floor, Dorian’s weight pinning him, and reality blurred between this dank tunnel and an upended wooden crate in a repo storage unit.

_****BOOM!** ** _

John heard the first blast.  Oh, yeah.  That came through loud and clear.  The three successive explosions he felt through the floor, vibrations thrumming past his vest and gear.

And then…

Silence.

Utter stillness.

The eternal moment before the universe remembered to gasp for breath.

John’s ears were ringing as he pushed himself upright, leading with his gun.  “Bravo Portland!” he shouted into the comm, reporting in and ready to fire.  He was low on ammo, but Adachi and the others had been closer to the blast; they needed John to lay down cover fire until they managed to push past the shock wave.

Beside him, Dorian opened fire.  John barely heard the percussion of each bullet.  Barely felt the kickback of the assault weapon in his own grasp.

In the distance, two heat signatures that had ventured past the bend in the corridor went down hard.

“Bravo Chicago!” John heard -- a tinny voice tickling his numb eardrum.  Adachi was up and returning fire.

“Bravo Dallas!”  That was Choo checking in.

“Bravo Atlanta!”  Wilson.

“Bravo Phoenix!”  Konechny.

Well, hell.  It looked like they hadn’t lost anyone.  Any humans, that is.

A beep in John’s earpiece.  Another countdown, which meant--

Dorian was going in.  To try to patch up the downed MXs.  In the middle of a battle.  On his own.  Just like before.

_****Not this time.** ** _

John couldn’t lower his weapon, but he could step in front of the DRN.  He could lead Dorian in while laying down cover fire.  That hadn’t been what Dorian had asked for, but like hell John was going to stay back a second time.

A long, artificial arm wrapped around John’s waist from behind, but John was already firing and Dorian didn’t dare haul him off-balance.  No, the DRN matched John’s steps, undoubtedly prevented from moving as nimbly and swiftly as he had before when he’d dived into the smokey melee to reactivate the pulsed MXs, but damnit John was his cover!

John led with quick, smooth strides that -- had anyone else been acting as his shadow -- would have resulted in their feet tangling together in a hopeless mess.  Dorian’s handgun came up alongside John’s assault rifle, firing in counterpoint.  Strong android fingers stayed clamped onto John’s tactical belt, ready to toss him to safety.

With the momentary distraction that their brazen, forward charge presented, Wilson and Choo advanced position and the remaining MXs pushed forward, navigating what was left of the two that had fallen on the grenades.

And then Dorian was tugging insistently on John’s belt, maneuvering him out of the main corridor and toward a wall.  John supposed this meant that it’d take more than a couple bolts and a spool of wire to manage repairs.  He didn’t have time to take a look for himself, but that was fine.  Not his job.  Plus, John had seen more than enough MX scraps to have a pretty good idea.  Still, it’d be nice to know what Dorian’s sensor range was in these dismal conditions.

A conversation for later.

And then a blast--a flare of light erupting from the tunnel junction ahead where InSyndicate had dug in, holding back Adachi’s team for what felt like a Tolkien age.

John straightened up, blinking past the residual flash that his goggles had inadvertently amplified.

Huh.  It looked like Gomez really did know his maps.

Out of the sudden, eardrum-thrumming silence, Thompson, Gomez, and their two MXs emerged.  There were no greetings over the comm as they crossed paths with Adachi’s team.  Just a swift tap on the shoulder in the smokey quiet, and then Thompson and Gomez were hoisting themselves up into a service duct just past the intersection as Adachi signaled for her men to push forward.

Dorian took charge of the kid in their custody and John fell back to keep an eye on both of them.  Well, OK, her especially.  Sixteen and probably up to her self-righteous and hubris-drenched ears with ideas on how to immortalize herself among her sick and desperate friends because, yeah, when you’re sixteen, you _****know****_  how much smarter you are than everyone else.

Or maybe that was just guys.  To be fair, John was making shots in the dark when it came to the female adolescent psyche.

It was either a damn shame or a profound relief that there was no time or place to stop and make chitchat.  John probably would have done something stupid, like try to talk to her.  Hell, he could practically hear himself start off with something provoking, like: “Your pals probably warned you against talking to us.  Too bad we’re the ones you’re probably gonna be spending your last moments with.”

Oh, yeah.  Real charming.  John could just picture Dorian rolling his eyes upward in a bid for Divine intervention.  As if he honestly believed God gave enough of a damn about John to smite him.  How adorable was that.

Biting down on a smile, John scanned back over the way they’d come.  His humor faded as he considered the likelihood that this kid had family.  Little brothers or sisters to look after, maybe.  Yeah, she might not be a hardened mercenary, but she’d be no less vicious if she sensed an opening.  There wasn’t much a person wouldn’t do for the sake of those they love.

Adachi signaled for everyone to take position as another junction loomed dark-and-deadly up ahead.

The team braced themselves.

The kid was shivering.  Either going into shock or on the verge of wetting her pants.

John knew the feeling.

An MX slid around the corner to scan the available pathways--

A shrill, smokey whistle, pitch rising…

“Incoming!” Wilson bellowed.

John threw himself toward Dorian, who turned and slammed into John, and--

The blast of light and thunder that followed was either an ordinance explosion or John’s skull bouncing off of the concrete really hard.  He blinked his eyes open -- When had he closed them? -- and grimaced at Dorian’s order to--

“Take your iodine pill, Bravo Portland.  Iodine pill.  Do you copy, Bravo Portland?”

Iodine.  Iodine pill.  Oh, shit.  That meant radiation.  Dirty bomb.  Fucking fuck.

He groaned onto his side, digging for the container that held the capsule.  He popped the top and shoved it beneath his mask, dumping the iodine pill onto his dry tongue.  He squeezed up some spit from somewhere.  Swallowed.

“Copy that,” he reported in alongside the rest of the team.  Like a trooper.  Yeah, John was one of the boys all right.

He wouldn’t say no to a hand up, though, because how many times had John been tossed on the ground today?  Hell.  That’s what this was: Hell.  And--

And then a flash of motion-and-metal in the darkness.

John reacted before the blade could find its mark in Dorian’s neck.

The assault rifle pulsed, shoving John’s shoulder flat against the ground.  The first shot went wide.  The second didn’t.

The kid -- the teenage InSyndicate pawn -- fell back with a shriek and clatter.  A military-issue K-bar knife tumbled free of her grasp.

Dorian didn’t bother to turn around and feel for a pulse.  That shot had hit center mass.

Fuck.

A familiar hand hovered in front John’s face.  He grasped it and let Dorian pull him upright in silence.  And then a tug on John’s belt; Dorian slid the fallen knife back in place.  Jesus.  She must have grabbed it at some point in the chaos and she would have used John’s own weapon against D--

_****Later, Kennex!** ** _

Yeah.  Deal with it later.

He accompanied Dorian in the aftermath, grateful for something to focus on even if the effort led to the sorry sight of another MX out of commission.  They were down to three.

Three MXs and iodine pills in their bellies.  The tactical gear could only deflect so much and they were a long, long way from an ER.

So, really, there was no point in wondering how bad the radiation had been.  He could ask D for a number -- he’d bet DRNs had built-in Geiger counters -- but John doubted the information would make much of a difference.  John was still alive, upright, and breathing.  Which meant he still had a job to do.


	12. Tunneling

Wilson and Choo turned down the south tunnel.  Konechny swayed on his feet for a moment before shaking it off and resuming formation beside Adachi.  In under ten seconds, the team was fully mobile.

And headed in the wrong direction.

So began Phase Three: the homestretch and John’s last chance to really piss some InSyndicate scumbags off.  This was the distraction that was going to give Thompson and Gomez a clear line into the gang’s hub.  Hopefully.

Twenty minutes later, John was ducking bullets right on schedule.  The team dug in, taking cover behind the remaining MXs.  It was a little cozy because two team members had to share a single bullet-catcher, but John wasn’t going to complain about being shoulder-to-shoulder with Dorian.

They paced themselves, returning fire just frequently enough to make the enemy think twice about rushing them.  John methodically reloaded as the MX he crouched behind pumped bullet after bullet toward the lookouts posted up ahead.

Time stretched until John’s nerves started to twang.  Plan or no plan, if Thompson didn’t give them the green light soon, John was going to get twitchy.  Never had been much of a fan of sitting still.  Even less so on enemy turf with limited exits and projectiles screaming past his head.

_****C’mon, get in there already and lock it down!****  _

Surely “Miracle Map” Gomez and “Cool” Thompson didn’t need much more time to--

_****BOOM!** ** _

John shuffled his stance wider as the tunnel shook.  A blast in the distance beyond where InSyndicate were entrenched.  Adachi signaled for everyone to hold their fire.  John held his breath for good measure and listened hard…

…to the faint pop and peppering of gunshots cracking against concrete.  The sound warped by the sloping walls of the tunnels, difficult to judge distance, but it sure as hell sounded like the enemy had been outflanked.

By who?  Not Thompson and Gomez, who should be way the hell in the other direction.  And it wasn’t another SEAL team; Adachi’s people were still on-schedule, so that couldn’t be reinforcements, which meant it had to be another gang diving in, looking to take a chunk out of a rival while the getting was good and before all the glory was gone.

Son of a bitch.

Adachi lifted a gloved fist and waved, signaling for the team to fall back and John wholeheartedly agreed, matching Dorian’s stride as they retreated to the closest intersection.

But then, a _****snap!****  _and a metallic rumble -- from the west.  Where the hub’s main entrance was supposed to be.  It was the sound of a blast door cranking open.

Aw, hell.  The cavalry was charging to the rescue and if they didn’t want to get caught up in the excitement, then it was time to disappear.

Choo pulled up short and then ducked down a secondary pathway.  Adachi signaled for everyone to file past into what was a glorified drain, but it took them east and into the safety of silent darkness.  Unfortunately, it didn’t take them far.  Ten meters and then a massive grate of solid iron.  Shit.

“Scan for ducts and manhole covers,” Adachi ordered the androids.  The MXs and Dorian immediately complied.

John and Wilson kept eyes on the murky grays beyond the drainage tunnel’s entrance.  Any second now, InSyndicate’s reinforcements would be racing straight for them, spilling out of the main tunnel just a sneeze and nose-twitch to the right and if they had either flashlights or night vision goggles…

_****There’s no way they won’t get an eyeful.** ** _

“Manhole cover,” Dorian reported directly into their earpieces.  “Sealed over with cement.  One-point-eight centimeters thick.  I can break it.”

But it would be loud.

“Konechny, take two MXs.”  Adachi nodded toward the tunnel entrance and John resisted the urge to join the party.  He wasn’t the team leader here.  He wasn’t responsible for these lives.  He was Dorian’s backup.

The sound of running footsteps.

Dorian crouched and punched at the floor -- _****crack! crack! crack! crack!****  _\-- in time with those footfalls, and then swept the debris aside, grasped the barely-there indentations on the manhole cover, twisted, lifted--

The remaining MX knelt at the hole, scanned, and dived in.

“All clear,” came the report.  John could just barely hear it over the clamor approaching.

“Dorian,” Adachi commanded, and down the DRN went.  John was right behind him, falling into an unknown depth.  Terrifyingly weightless.

Until he suddenly -- and inevitably -- wasn’t anymore.

“Oomph!”

Dorian caught him and nudged him out of the way to make room for Choo and Wilson, giving John plenty of time and space to reflect on how forty-six was way too old for this shit.

Rifle blast overhead.  Somewhere.  John flinched toward the sound, trying to judge how close it was and who was firing--

More shots.  Shouts.  The echo was throwing off John’s ability to pinpoint sounds and it was really starting to get irritating.

And then a second MX jumped down without fanfare, Konechny following, leaning heavily on the nearest android.

Adachi crashed to the filthy tunnel floor, hissing at her own awkward landing and Dorian grabbed her, yanking her clear so that the last MX could follow.  The one who’d cleared their hidey-hole reached up and dragged the cover shut with applaudable stealth.

“MX, report structure perimeters,” Adachi said, voice strained.  “Assess for safety and identify exits.”

“Early twentieth century waste disposal tunnel.  One-point-seven-five meters in diameter.  Orientation southeast-northwest.  End points unknown.  Toxins within acceptable levels.  No detectable exits.”

No exits.  Just great.  Mice in the fucking plumbing.

“Ready weapons.  Two teams.  Cover all angles,” she commanded and John found himself and Dorian crowding one side of the tunnel with Choo and an MX.  There was a rustle and a gasp -- from Konechny -- just a few feet away.

Wilson quietly asked, “Where you hit, man?”

An MX dispassionately described: “The bullet struck no major blood vessels.  His collarbone is broken.”

John glared into the unending blackness, remembering: _****“He will bleed to death before you get him out of here…”****_

“Exit wound?” Adachi probed.

“Negative.”

“Fuck,” Konechny opined.

Wilson snorted.  “Not gonna happen for you, man.”

“Oh, funny.”

“Hey, ‘funny’ is better than ‘funny looking.’”

Choo couldn’t resist: “Yeah, you’d know all about that last one, Coney Island.”

“Bite me, Chewy.”

John leaned toward Dorian.  “Scan Adachi.  She twist an ankle with that landing?”

A moment later, Dorian answered, “Right Achilles’ tendon.  Possibly torn.”

“Anything we can do for that right now?”

“No.”

The sound of Velcro tearing open joined the quiet rustle of first aid.  Through his night vision goggles, John glimpsed Adachi wrapping a field dressing around her leg.  Better than nothing.

In the meantime, John figured he might as well point out the elephant in the room: “D, can you get a signal down here if Thompson tries to make contact?”

“No.”

Choo volunteered, “I’ll take one MX and go topside.”

“Do it,” Adachi agreed and John made room for Choo to squeeze past as an MX silently lifted and shifted the manhole cover.  With a leap and a little hang time at the edge of the opening, it determined that the immediate area was clear.  Gunshots further down the subway tunnel at their previous location indicated that InSyndicate was focused on the new arrivals.

“Gimme a boost, MX,” Choo told it.  The android complied and Choo was up and through in a heartbeat, navigating the opening without a sound.

The MX followed.  The cover was left ajar and John breathed easier for it.

Adachi pulled herself upright.  Wilson finished packing Konechny’s wound.  The MXs dutifully scanned the tunnel.

It was an unexpected moment of calm.  An island of conditional safety in the midst of possible death, parting the veil of immediate concerns and revealing truth.  Clarity of heart.  Hopes.  Fears.  Reasons to live.

John swallowed against all of the things he ought to tell Dorian.  Things he’d been waiting for a smart opening to say with charm and wit.  Things he hadn’t really noticed until now.  Things that might exist only in this moment and nowhere else.  But John’s Dorian wasn’t here, so it was just as well that the words -- fragments of thanks and brittle promises -- were tangled up and churning, stuck below his Adam’s apple.

But Dorian would remember this moment.  When his personality interface came back online and he smiled that cute, knowing little grin of his again and went back to pestering John about his haircut, he’d remember.  So John reached out and gripped the DRN’s shoulder.  Squeezed hard.  And then let go.

John focused.  Weapon at the ready.  Anything could happen in the eleventh hour.

Dorian stood, perfectly still and stoic, at John’s side.  And they waited.

Waited.

Waited some more.

Fun times.  Fun times.

Just when John was starting to wonder if he should be setting up a game of Hangman in his head to keep his shit together, an MX head dipped down past the rim of the manhole and blurted: “Transmission received.  Thompson and Gomez are in position and standing by.”

Adachi moved to help Wilson with Konechny.  “Let’s go.”

John was more than ready to comply.


	13. The Hub

The sputter of distant gunfire covered the pitter-patter of combat boots tip-tapping across the concrete as the team burst from the end of the drainage tunnel and closed in on the main entrance.

“On approach,” Adachi sent over the short-range frequency and John was frankly amazed that she sounded so calm and collected.  Although, in all fairness, John would rather be subjected to back-to-back Broadway musicals than admit to his own exhaustion.

He kept scanning the empty tunnel because at any moment anyone could pop out from around the corner and completely screw them over with a shout of discovery or a barrage of bullets.  But they didn’t.  Because, apparently, the god that usually dumped on Kennex was constipated.  

Mark this day on the calendar.

John missed the grand opening due to skepticism -- _****This is it… really?****  _\-- but he managed a nod to Gomez who was standing by on the threshold.  And when John turned around and got a look at what was on the other side…

Damn.

A dozen figures slumped and sprawled on the floor.  Knock-out gas.  Zip ties secured the wrists and ankles of the unconscious gang members in the large entryway.  John counted six additional closed doors.

“Facility secured?” Adachi checked, asking the question they were all silently thinking.

“No.”

OK, then.  Time to dot some I’s and cross their T’s.  John and Dorian took the second door on the left.  Konechny and Adachi stationed themselves at the main entrance.  Keeping watch.

Dorian hacked the lock faster than any of the MXs despite their combined computing power and John would be chuffed about that later because right now he was swinging into a room, florescent light flickering from its dilapidated fixture overhead, sweeping the vicinity for opposition.

It was empty.  Of people, anyway.  Guns on the other hand…  John sighed out a long breath that would have been a whistle if he hadn’t felt so wrung out and furious.  Police issue and military grade weapons lined the dingy walls.  Crates of ammo and other ordinance stacked waist-high.

“D,” John prompted, “you detect any traps?”

“Negative.”

John ventured further, rifle in firing position, toward the cheap-and-hasty recycled drywall job at the opposite end of the room.

“What’s beyond this?” he asked Dorian.

“Bunk room.  No life signs.”

Yeah, as soon as John squeezed past the sliding door, he could see that for himself.  Blankets and pillows spilled across the floor as if eruptions had taken place on every pallet, and there were a dozen of them crammed into this tiny room.  John crouched down and took a long look under the beds just to be sure there were no gremlins or blinking red lights.

“All clear,” he concluded and radioed to the rest of the team that he and Dorian were coming out.

Choo and his MX had found two guys barricaded in the cantina pantry, but the computer and communications hub had been dealt with before Thompson had reported reaching their objective.  John scowled at the pair of unconscious kids who had been at the controls.  Their burly boss was also out cold.  Zip-tied with MX precision.

“Hub secure,” Thompson announced and in the next heartbeat, John was turning to Dorian: “Let’s find you a charger, D.”

But then he paused in mid pivot-- “Wait.  What is your charge, man?”

“Thirty-five percent.”

Thirty-five percent.  Hell.  If Dorian had been wantonly punching and hugging things at barely half a charge back in September, then how would he deal with the costs this assignment had demanded of them so far?  “Yeah.  You’re gonna need a charge.  C’mon.”

They found a port that, combined with an adapter that Rudy had thoughtfully foisted on John’s partner, would fit the bill.  John swung a chair around for D to sit on while he was tethered to the power source and gnashed his teeth together when Dorian obediently lowered himself into the seat.

“Unlike some, I don’t make a point of avoiding chairs just because I have something to prove,” Dorian didn’t say.  Didn’t snark.  Didn’t smirk.

Damn it.

But soon.  Dorian would be back _****soon.****_

In the meantime, John leaned against a wall and kept out of the way as Wilson focused on follow-up exams of his patients, the MXs took inventory, and Thompson made contact to report their arrival at target location.

It was all so much buzzing to John’s jangling nerves and numb brain.  His stomach was hollow, but the thought of eating another MRE had him on the verge of puking up the one he’d choked down earlier.  He’d pass on the encore, thanks.

Wouldn’t mind a doughnut, though.

John tilted his head back against the cold wall and closed his eyes for a moment.  Just a moment…

And snapped them open at a playful poke to his chest.  Dorian was practically sitting on him and, oh hell, he was back online all right.

“Hey, Sergeant Whiskers.  You can take your mask and goggles off.”

“But not the helmet, huh?  That your way of telling me we’re about to butt heads, D?”  On autopilot, John’s right hand started pulling and poking at the fastenings of his headgear.  He moved to brace his left against the wall in order to pull his feet under him, but Dorian readily held out a hand for John to grasp, which he did and levered himself upright with a grunt.

“You’re welcome,” Dorian said with a smile.  Like John had somehow articulated a “thank you” in there somewhere.

“You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” John accused, dumping his goggles, mask, and helmet on the nearest desk space.  He was feeling brave, so he rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out.  Or, OK, who was he kidding?  The soft pop of bone rotating despite stiff muscles was pretty much status quo.  John bothered with stretching either because he was an eternal optimist or incapable of capitulating.  It was a toss-up.

He eyed Dorian’s happy expression with suspicion. “What put you in happy toaster mode?”

“You, John.”

John didn’t bother to glance around.  Dorian wouldn’t have said that in a place where they could be overheard.  “Yeah?  What, did I talk in my sleep?”

“You breathed,” Dorian corrected and dared to reach for John’s gloved hand.  “We made it, man.”

Yeah.  Yeah, here they both were: maybe a little irradiated and banged up with the blood of teenagers on their hands…

“I offered to take first watch at comms,” Dorian blurted and John figured that was his cue to ask: “You OK?”

Dorian’s brows twitched together.  His smile melted into a moue of emotion.  “They were just kids, John.  Kids like Emily Wilson.  I could save _****her.”****_

John tilted his head and reached for Dorian’s shoulder with his free hand.  “You were given the chance to save her.”  But not these kids.  The boy from the gunfight above ground and the girl they’d taken prisoner after the skirmish at the subway turnstiles, they were both dead because--

“I hate the Wall, John.  I hate it.  I hate what it turns these kids into.  I hate that military protocol says they’re acceptable collateral.  I hate it.  I hate--”

And, OK.  Hug time.  John pulled himself into Dorian’s space and wrapped his arms around the DRN’s shoulders.  Dorian’s arms went around his torso so tight John’s backbone popped but he didn’t even wince.  He just pressed his bare cheek to Dorian’s synthetic ear and held on while the android emoted with dry sobs.

If DRNs could have wept, John was pretty sure his flak jacket would be a sodden mess of tears and snot right now.  But they couldn’t and, ironically, John -- who was capable of that kind of release -- no longer felt human enough to manage it.  No, there were no tears, no stuffy nose.  Just anger.  Pure, sudden, roaring fury at the whole mess of a world.  The Wall.  The gangs.  InSyndicate.  The politicians.  The people trapped in the middle, in no man’s land, left behind.

Why did people even have a sense of fairness -- why did the word even exist -- in a world like this?  It was just cruel.

A footstep at the doorway.  Choo poked his head around the corner to investigate the sound of Dorian’s muffled misery before ducking back out of sight.  John pretended he hadn’t noticed the interruption and kept his arms right where they were, his hands rubbing D’s shoulders, urging him to just let it out.  Let it go.  Grieve and move on.

Advice John should probably take.

Maybe later.

For now, he welcomed the warmth and strength of the anger.  Motivation to counter the creaks and complaints of his aching body.  In lieu of coffee.

When Dorian finally calmed and shifted, John let him straighten up without a fight.  Balancing their roles of Hugger and Hugee.

“Thanks, man,” Dorian said quietly.  “I didn’t mean to unload on you like that, but--”

“Hey.  We’re partners.”  24/7.  He peered closely at Dorian’s expression.  “We good for now?” John asked because there was no way Dorian was totally fine, hunky-dory, and OK.  And if he _****was****_  back to normal after a mere five minutes of venting, then something was very, very wrong.

The DRN nodded.  “Yeah.  We’re good for now.”

Which was damn fortunate because they were still on the clock.

The bozos out in the tunnels had finally figured out that someone had locked them out of their little clubhouse.  They didn’t have much in the way of firepower left after dealing with the guerrilla warfare tactics of their rivals, thank God, but there was at least one person with either a brain or access codes trying to hack in.

The MXs took over the comms station, computer, and locking mechanisms, coordinating seamlessly to counter the attack.

Gomez was on the horn with somebody -- probably the other teams who would be deploying with orders to maintain the perimeter Adachi’s team had cleared -- describing routes and features.  Thompson and Choo were at other terminals alongside MXs, scouring the database to determine just how big the operation was down here.

Dorian and John were on prisoner detail as the captured InSyndicate crew groggily came to with telltale winces and groans.

“There’s no point in trying anything stupid,” John said flatly as one man began to struggle in earnest against the zip ties.  “If we run out of bullets, we’ll just borrow some of yours.”

That quieted everyone down.

“Who are you people?” a particularly daring redhead demanded.  He held a vague resemblance to that InSyndicate asswipe Trevor Janns.  The piece of shit who had shot himself in the leg during the heist in South Kelvin last April, gotten three cops killed en route to a safe house, and then run right back to Reinhardt to pick up where he’d left off.

So John wasn’t terribly surprised when the man answered John’s challenge of “Who’s asking” with “Aston Janns.”

Yup.  Definitely related.  Brothers, probably.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Janns persisted.

John retorted, “Who, me?  I’m just the help.  What do I want?  A shot of bourbon and a cinnamon doughnut tops the list.”

“You--what?”

“Shut up, Janns.  I’m not the one you gotta impress.  If you don’t piss me off, maybe those introductions will happen.”

Janns shut up.

“Who does he have to impress, John?” Dorian asked because Dorian was curious again and John couldn’t help smiling at the proof that he had his D back.

“A dick of our mutual acquaintance.”  Paul, in other words.

“Ah,” Dorian breathed, grinning.  “It’s too bad we’ll miss the show.”

You know, John could almost agree.  But his desire to get back home to his shower and smartbed trumped the chance to watch Richard Paul throw his weight around.

Until the changing of the guard occurred, John thought to ask Dorian with a nod toward the nearest MX, “You keeping an eye on the dream team?”  Because InSyndicate had been ready for MXs down at the turnstiles.  Who was to say they hadn’t planted a virus in the system here just in case?

Dorian gave him a startled look.  “I’m maintaining a firewall as we speak.”

John nodded, relieved and irked.  Relieved for obvious reasons -- the last thing they needed was for the MXs to drop to the ground or turn on them and open fire.  Irked because, obviously, that was a question he should’ve asked way sooner.

“Just making conversation,” he mumbled, scanning the prisoners.

“Sure, man.”

John huffed.  OK, so Dorian didn’t believe him.  What else was new.

“We’ve identified a facility of interest,” Dorian suddenly volunteered, probably dreading that John would ask more stupid questions just to fill the silence and pass the time.  It wasn’t like they were getting radio reception down here.  Too bad.  According to John’s watch, the weekly Top 40 were on.

“Yeah?” John answered because what the hell.  News was news.  “On a scale of one to ten, what kind of interest are we talking here?”

“A maintenance station for DRNs.”

“How many?”

“One hundred and twenty-eight.”

John felt his jaw drop.  “No, wait.  You’re telling me they’ve got enough chargers and spare parts lying around for over a hundred of Vaughn’s androids?”

Dorian nodded.

Flabbergasted, John demanded, “Where the hell are they getting the juice from?”

“A nuclear power plant on the outskirts of the city,” Dorian replied with grave calm.

Damn.  Given the premium that electricity went for, there was no way somebody at All American Energy hadn’t noticed the theft.  Which meant it probably wasn’t theft at all.  Either InSyndicate had someone on the inside or some pretty impressive leverage was in play.

“No drug factories located yet,” Dorian continued and John nodded, happy to focus on something that, while still a threat and a concern, was a hell of a lot more inert than a potential android army.

“Yeah, well, they don’t have all that many customers over here.”

“No, they don’t,” Dorian agreed with a glower.  John idly wondered if D had picked up that particular expression from him.  What an honor.  “Database records indicate there’s a population of 14,729 individuals residing in the tunnels below us.”

14,729.

Not even John was enough of a cynic to believe that they were all fugitives, hunkering down in the forsaken neighborhoods of the crumbling city because they were dodging arrest warrants and jury duty and parking tickets.  Most of them were probably idealists, Marxists, and anarchists who had either stayed behind or been suckered into crossing the Wall, so in love with their pipe dream of a new Utopia that they’d actually convinced themselves that political reform was on InSyndicate’s agenda.  Yeah, right.  Gangs had goals, sure, but the betterment of humanity through egalitarian society was not one of them.

Still, almost fifteen thousand people were living around here somewhere.  And that was only counting the individuals in the areas that InSyndicate had control over.  John thought of the relief supplies that would be airlifted and trucked in.  Food parcels and medicine packages tagged with GPS-trackable ink meant for distribution far and wide for the purpose of getting an accurate fix on the census.  Boy, did Paul have his work cut out for him.

“Let me guess,” John drawled.  “They don’t get the employee discount.”

“Electricity, food, water, and medicine -- InSyndicate controls it all,” Dorian spat.

Yeah.  Oldest story in the book.  The one where you sell your soul to the company store.  And by the time they demand your firstborn, there’s no way you can refuse.  Whole generations caught up in the rat race.

It made John want to punch somebody’s face in.

Instead, he thumped Dorian’s shoulder and observed, “Not anymore, D.”

Dorian agreed with soft smile.  “It will take a long time.”

“Yeah.  Well, last I heard, the world was still spinning.”  So there was hope.

Or imminent disaster.  Even odds and all that.

Wilson wandered over with a swagger looking like he was going to be taking over John’s shift.  John didn’t budge.

“Hey, man.  Rack time.”

“I’m good.”

Wilson nodded, his gaze flicking briefly in Dorian’s direction before asking John, “Your partner OK?”

OK?  Ah.  Right.  Choo was a gossip.  Good to know.

John nodded in Dorian’s direction.  “Ask _****him.”****  _ Because Dorian wasn’t a dog on a leash; he could speak for himself.

Before the ensign could drum up the gumption to twist the moment into something even more painfully awkward for them all, Dorian said, “I’m fine, man.  Thanks for asking.  Sorry if I bothered you guys earlier.”

“Naw, man.  It’s cool.”  Clearing his throat, Wilson said, “You guys take twenty.”

John sucked in a breath to argue--

But then Choo emerged from the head and tromped right over to assume watch.  Well, fine then.  Maybe John would take twenty.

He backed down and turned away, asking Dorian quietly, “Where you gotta be to get a signal?”  He gestured messily between the MXs that were in their line of sight and out of it.  Two of them were charging while the enemy threat was still manageable.

“Over here’s fine,” Dorian replied, leading the way to a bunk room that was angled toward the computer hub.  John didn’t ask when Dorian swung the door mostly shut.  Didn’t ask when the DRN sat right down next to John on the nearest pallet.  Didn’t ask when those strong arms wound around his waist and Dorian tucked his nose against John’s jaw.

John let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and hugged back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September 27, 2019
> 
> OK, so I meant to leave a note about this, but never did. *facepalm* You might be wondering why, if Dorian could cut back on his personality interface to save power here, he didn't in the TV episode Simon Says? Well, I can offer some speculation on that.
> 
> It seems to me that, if a DRN's personality interface is operating, then it takes MORE energy to regulate it. (Which is why Dorian had all those cute little outbursts in the TV episode Simon Says.) I think DRNs (could/should) have a "military protocol" mode for emergency situations where they can de-prioritize their own personality in order to just get the job done with the least amount of energy consumption. (It's possible that Dorian did this in the TV show before attempting to climb the clock tower and arrest Simon Lynch because we don't see any of Dorian's personality quirks in this sequence.)
> 
> BUT! DRNs were made to feel -- this is canon, yeah? So using MX-like priorities and calculations to decide matters of life and death doesn't come naturally to DRNs. And when a DRN comes out of "military protocol" mode, all the things that he'd had to do are RIGHT THERE. Everything bad hits the DRN all at once. It's pretty traumatizing and can push him over the edge. (In Dorian's case here, he'd voluntarily surrendered his free will and now he feels used, and he feels like a failure because of the casualties that he never got the chance to even TRY to avoid.)
> 
> In conclusion: it's a bad idea for DRNs to go into "military protocol" mode (if they can avoid it) because, in a word, BACKLASH.


	14. EMP

DRNs were not cut out to be soldiers.  Hell, John was of the opinion that most weren’t even cut out to be cops.  But Dorian was special.  John couldn’t even be irritated with Sandra for being right about that.

Yeah.  A day like the one they’d just had would’ve caused any other Synthetic Soul to snap.  The push and pull -- the tension between a mission objective successfully met and the horrible, sickening waste of life -- well.  Was it any wonder so many DRNs had chosen death rather than live with that data -- memories that would never fade and actions that would never be easier to accept -- until the instant that the android went offline for good?

“You don’t have to be OK,” John whispered into Dorian’s hair.  “But you’re not alone.”

His lover nodded against John’s shoulder.  Their twenty minutes of rack time was almost up and John had dozed for maybe all of five of it.  Eh, good enough.  It wasn’t like he was going to be handed a cape and told to save the world.  At least not today.

Speaking of which…  John checked his watch.  Almost thirty-six hours ago, John had been biting back a howl as he’d repelled over the Wall in that damned harness, nether regions doing their damnedest to convince John that sex was evil and NEVER AGAIN.

John smirked.  Never again?  Yeah, right.  Hell, as soon as they got home and got rested up, he’d be daring Dorian to prove that the first time hadn’t been a fluke.  Aw, hell yeah.  He liked that idea.  He liked it a lot.

And it was no coincidence that Dorian leaned back right as John felt a warm flush climb his own neck.  A slow, knowing smile curved the DRN’s lips and Dorian mused, low and eight kinds of sexy, “You know what the first thing I wanna do when we get home is?”

_****Me?****  _ Yeah, John could hope.  Instead, he played: “OK, OK.  You can drive.”

Dorian perked up, switched gears, and enthused, “To the beach?”

“Sure.”

“Where we’ll make sand castles?”

“To your heart’s content.”

“And can we invite Rudy?”

John tilted his head.  Squinted like he was honestly considering it.  “Hmmm, no.”  In a quiet rumble, John murmured into Dorian’s ear, “I like having your turrets and ramparts all to myself.”

Dorian huffed a laugh.  “Bad pun, man.”

“Yeah?”

“The worst.”

“No kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding, John.  That was horrible.”

“But you’re smiling,” John pointed out with relish, basking in Dorian’s beaming expression.  This.  This right here was why he bothered.  Why he poked back when Dorian prodded and why he would gladly be the guy with the worst haircut in the room if that was who Dorian was going home with at the end of the day.

“One of these days, I’m going to figure out how to take you on vacation,” John blurted.

Dorian blinked, a frown of confusion puckering his brow.  “Where would we go?”

“Where do you wanna go?”

And, yup.  The smile was back.  Full power.  Man, but there were days when John loved his work.

“Anywhere I want?”

John nodded.  “If it’s got water, land, and oxygen, yeah.  Anywhere you want.”  And then -- to hell with whoever was in the next room -- John cupped Dorian’s face in his hands and leaned in for a slow, chaste kiss.

Dorian was luminous, his fingers curling around John’s wrists and preventing John from retreating completely.  “But, John, I don’t need water or oxygen.”

Smart ass.  “Those are for me.”

“Oh, so you’d be coming, too?”

Coming?  Oh, yeah.  “You’d better believe it.”  And then John slid the tip of his nose along Dorian’s.  One more touch.  One more moment of shared breath and space…

And their twenty minutes were up.

Suspects in custody -- _****prisoners****_  -- weren’t exactly allowed to feed themselves.  Probably not a good idea to give trained killers free run of the kitchen and access to its sharp and pointy utensils.  Unless John was remembering the legend of Spartacus wrong, that was how Rome’s Third Serville War had kicked off.

John was unaware of any noteworthy revolts that had started on an unsupervised bathroom break, but he wasn’t all that keen to go down in history for it.  What a shame that none of these InSyndicate dirtbags had conveniently worn their catheter to work.

Thompson and Wilson pitched in and when he next checked his watch, John was surprised to see that four hours had passed.

“Teams are on approach,” Dorian told him quietly.

John felt a lopsided smile push against unshaven scruff.  “You ready to go home?”

“Man, I was ready yesterday.”

A breathy chuckle chopped its way out of John’s chest.   _ ** **Can’t blame it on the hair gel routine this time, buddy,****_  John thought, but said instead: “You weren’t even _****you****_  yesterday.”  Which probably wasn’t much better.

Uh-huh.  The look Dorian was giving him would have clued John in if he hadn’t already figured that out.  But then the DRN rallied.

“Miss me?” Dorian needled because this was how Dorian retaliated -- with cuteness.

Jesus.

John put on a show of scanning the android.  “Must have.  I don’t see any bullet holes.”

“I’m sorry -- was that supposed to be charming?”

“Kennex brand charm,” John confirmed dryly with a twitch of his chin and wiggle of brows.

Dorian was not impressed.

_****You’re lucky there’s only one of me,****_  John didn’t tease because yeah, OK, even before the words made it to his tongue, they sounded bad.

“If that was popular back in the day… I gotta tell you I think you’ve missed a few recent upgrades.”

“Back in the--!” John sputtered and huffed.  “I’ll back you into the day.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?  I don’t speak Old Man Mumble.”

John gaped at him, shaking his head in disbelief.  “No respect.  None at all.”

Just the way John liked it, too.

And if the sly, sidelong look Dorian gave him was anything to go by, Dorian knew it.

There was a flurry of activity as the surviving MXs briskly marched toward the door, weapons at the ready.  John turned his scowl toward the InSyndicate members.  Pointed the unfriendly end of his assault rifle their way, too, just in case one of these idiots thought it’d be a good idea to cause trouble.  Or yodel.  John wouldn’t hesitate to shoot in either case.

“Manage to keep your remaining limbs, Kennex?” Paul greeted and, as greetings from Richard Paul went, yeah.  No surprise.

“Sure did.  If we happen to see where you dropped your brain on the way to the precinct, we’ll send it along.”

A reluctantly impressed and mostly hostile smile.  Wow, it was almost like being back in the bullpen.  Paul retorted, “You even know what a brain looks like?”

“If you’ve gotta ask…” John drawled, rolling one should in a lackadaisical shrug, “people are going to wonder what other body parts you wouldn’t recognize.”

“Yeah, well I know an ass when I see one.”

“Everyday when you look in the mirror.”

“Boys!” Valerie Stahl’s voice abruptly barked.  Directly from Dorian’s mouth.  “Can we move this along?  We all have places to be.”

Paul reared back half a step, thoroughly nonplussed by the impersonation.

John shuddered.  “Ugh.  I told you never to do that again.  Didn’t you promise not to do that again--no, wait.”  John held up a hand before Dorian could reply.  “Don’t play back the conversation.  Just.  Stop.”

Paul cleared his throat.  “I agree with Kennex.  Just this once,” he tacked on.

Dorian smirked.  Silent sass.

With a brusque nod toward the DRN, Paul suddenly remembered that he was a cop with shit to do: “Team’s pulling out as soon as your casualties are mobile.”

Your casualties.  John tried not to take it personally.  He was mostly unsuccessful.

It didn’t matter that John hadn’t been team leader on the op.  Didn’t matter that missions like this were always dangerous and it was impossible to anticipate every threat.  Logic and realism did not fucking matter.  However brief a time John had worked with Adachi and Konechny didn’t matter.  These were John’s people and they’d gotten hurt on his watch.

And there was nothing John could say that would make it better for anyone.  Himself included.

The field medics who’d crossed the threshold on Paul’s heels were fussing with Konechny.  Adachi was testing her balance on a pair of foldable crutches.  T-minus ten minutes -- twenty, tops -- until the order came to pull out.

John nodded to Dorian.  “It’s your op, D.  Fill Paul here in and let’s go.”

The DRN did with precisely worded sentences, voice calm and expression collected.  So different from earlier.  Huh.  Turned out humans weren’t the only ones who had a talent for hiding what they really felt.

“OK,” Paul said with assumed authority and John rolled his eyes.  “Let’s do the sign-off.  C’mon.”

Given that five new faces in SEAL tactical gear now watched the perps, John had no reason not to stand down.

“Yeah, sure.  Comm is this way,” John directed with a nod.  Paul gestured for John to lead the way, which should have been John’s first clue.

It really, really should have been.

As they rounded the corner of the wall, entering a shadowed space between one of the armories and their destination, a soft electronic hum joined the sound of their footsteps and the hair on John’s arms and neck snapped to attention, skin tightening on a shiver--

Dorian said, “What--”

And John spun around--

Getting an armful of carbon fiber and silicone as the DRN collapsed against him and, fuck, even with the 20% increased push-off of John’s prosthetic leg, there was no way he could brace Dorian up.  The best he could do was swing the android to the ground in a controlled fall.

“Dorian?  Dorian!  D!” John shouted at Dorian’s sightless, black eyes.  Pitch black.  He’d seen them like that before when--

And then John noticed the spike jammed in the back of Dorian’s neck.

The EMP spike.

The fucking EMP spike that Rudy had prepared for John to use on Dorian when he found him… if he absolutely had to.  If Dorian was beyond reason.  Beyond saving.

No.

John spun around on the balls of his feet and came up swinging.

Richard Paul ducked, anticipating the attack and John was reaching for his gun, bellowing with spittle flying, “What did you do, you sonuvabitch!”

“You a favor!” the man shouted back, wedging himself into John’s space, turning the assault rifle into an unwieldy and useless trinket at the end of a shoulder strap.  “I’ve done both of you a God damned favor, Kennex!”

“That’s some definition of ‘favor’ you’ve got,” John gritted out, teeth bared.

“Like your definition of ‘police work’?”

“What?”

“494,” Paul spat.  “Ring a bell?”

It did.  “Graffiti,” John snarled.

“A full-on android rights movement,” Paul corrected loudly.  He shoved at John’s chest, but if John took a step back, he’d be tripping over Dorian’s lifeless body.  “Protests in the streets started at seven a.m. the morning after you went over the Wall and snowballed until everyone was called in for riot duty.”

“Riots?”

Paul deigned to take a step back and, when John didn’t shoot him, elaborated, “A couple of neighborhoods.  We had it contained just before I left.”

“Uh-huh.  Humans or androids?”

“Humans.  Of course.”

“Humans picketing in the streets for android rights?” John checked because at some point this would start to make sense.  It had better start making sense.

“Yeah.  They’re camping right on the road in downtown, on highway entrance ramps.  City hall is under siege.”

John glanced toward Dorian.  “And the androids?”

“Are probably finding loopholes in their programming to exploit in order to help them out.”

Squinting at the other man, John accused, “You can’t think that Dorian would--”

“Get your head out of your ass, Kennex!  For every starry-eyed idealist carrying a banner for the cause, there are ten realists in power who want this resolved as soon as possible.”

“City council,” John realized.  “Hart and Billings--”

“And all the rest of them.  They called for an immediate deactivation of all the DRNs.”  Paul looked down at Dorian’s sprawled form.  “The only reason Dorian was still walking around was because he’s as far underground as he is.”

John blinked.  Scoffed.  “They can’t have already sent out a termination signal.”

“They can.  They did.  And once Dorian’s topside…”  Paul shook his head.  “He’d be in a heap in the dust and there’d be not a damn thing we could do for him.”

Nothing they could do.  Nothing they could do to stop the signal from deactivating Dorian before it knocked him flat, regardless of which side of the Wall they were on and there was nothing safe waiting for Dorian on the other side.  There was nothing they could do to stop the city administrators from selling Dorian for parts -- Rudy had once said that Dorian’s components were worth more than the whole of him -- or destroying him entirely.  John thought of the digital diary, Val’s Christmas present to Dorian, and just that quickly, those files might have been all John would have had left of him.  Just--just like that.  Dorian could be gone-- _ ** **erased** **\--****_

A hand grasping John’s upper arm.  Paul’s hand.  The shock of it clued John in to the fact that he was breathing hard, fast, hyperventilating.

He reined it in.  Swallowed back the panic and rage.  “You got that EMP spike from Rudy’s lab,” John said and understood: Rudy was in on the plan to shut Dorian off before he tried to move beyond the safety of the perimeter that the SEAL team had secured.  Unbelievably, Dorian was safer here in the middle of InSyndicate’s turf on the doomed side of the Wall than he was anywhere else right now.

Paul nodded, but didn’t implicate Rudy in the scheme.

“Maldonado’s orders?” John probed.

With a surprising amount of patience, Paul recited, “I’m to relieve you and Dorian.  Send you back.”

“And Dorian being unable to move under his own power changes that how?”

Paul shrugged once in resignation.  “He’s an android.  Human injuries take priority.  Synthetics, not so much.”

Or at all.  “How much time does that give us?”

“Depends on how much resistance we end up dealing with here.”

If the gangs rallied and fought back, the main objective would be to get the fighting under control.  But if they smartened up and went right for negotiations--

Either way, they were on borrowed time.

“Let’s do this,” John whispered, fearful and angry and more determined than ever not to settle for an MX partner.  Not so long as John drew breath.


	15. On Duty

Maldonado didn’t ask.  She didn’t even look to John’s left where Dorian would usually be or turn to survey the bullpen from the vantage point provided by her office windows to take a Dorian-less headcount.  Not a single word, spoken or otherwise.

So John made the first move.  It was either that or lose it completely.  “D took a hit.  Couldn’t make it back under his own power.”

“What kind of damage are we talking?”

“EMP.”  John clenched his teeth together before accusations could claw their way up his throat.

She nodded once.  There was nothing in her expression to indicate that she knew what Rudy and Paul had done.  There was nothing to suggest she wasn’t in on it, either.

John waited for her to ask why the reactivation wand -- the one that Dorian had been assigned -- hadn’t been up to the task of getting him back online.

But she didn’t.

Not that that proved anything.  After InSyndicate had attempted to breach the evidence locker back in April, it was common knowledge that DRNs didn’t run on the same frequency as MXs.

Staring hard at his captain through a haze of pissed off exhaustion, John waited.

Finally, she asked, “Can he come back from this?”  Her tone was one of idle speculation, but there was nothing idle about Sandra Maldonado.

“I’m the wrong person to ask.”  And she damn well knew it, too.

Her eyes narrowed as she held his glare.  John knew this look.  She didn’t doubt him, but she was challenging him, weighing his determination.  This might just be the first time he failed to pass muster, not because he was on the verge of collapsing into a sobbing mess like some kind of wet-behind-the-ears punk getting his first ass whoopin’, but because it was all John could do to keep the tremors of fury from emerging from his fingertips.

Although, John wasn’t entirely sure what else he ought to be feeling.  After ordering Paul to help him move Dorian to a bunk because an MX was touching D over John’s cold, dead body… after enduring the achingly long and too silent trek back with the SEAL team… after proving his identity with a retina scan and a pricked finger at the gate and putting up with one medical test after another just so he could be cleared to drive across town solo, winding his way through the city and skirting streets clogged with chanting protesters, before finally stomping into the bullpen alone, hounded by the persistent and shadowy uncertainty of whether he’d ever _****see****_  his partner again…

Yeah.  Was there some other variety of skin-blistering rage that would be more appropriate in this situation?  And if there was, could somebody clue John in already?  He had shit to do and if he stopped to think about all the things that could go wrong on the other side of the Wall -- chemical weapons that would prompt immediate evacuation, Dorian left behind to be scavenged like the stripped-bare subway atrium had been…

John really was going to lose it.  A whole fucking lot.

“Go home.  Get some rest,” Maldonado said because that was what Detective Kennex’s boss _****had to****_  say.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John didn’t waste time arguing with her.  The more time he spent here in the precinct, the more useless he’d be.

“I’d bench you if it would do any good,” Sandra had sighed out at the truck stop diner the morning after InSyndicate had targeted her at home, and John had agreed: no, telling him to ride a bench was the catalyst for his God damn battle cry.

“I want updates,” he growled.  “When Paul checks in, I want to know what’s going on over there.”

“Done,” she agreed and John was past the point of caring why she was indulging him.  All that mattered was that he’d gotten his way.  For once.

He drove home, mindful of Dorian’s clothes still neatly folded in the duffel bag that was snug in the trunk.  Right next to John’s.  He left them both where they were.  Took a shower.  Slurped down some instant noodles with his back to the stove where Dorian stubbornly insisted on cooking “actual” food.  John then dumped the empty container and disposable chopsticks in the trash, turned on his comms system, and logged into the Delta Division servers.

John wasn’t named as an investigating officer in the recent uproar over android rights.  But he wasn’t locked out of the file, either.  Looked like he and Sandra were on the same page.

He scrolled through the list of locations and witnesses that had already been ticked off.  The lack of one very disturbing possibility had John dialing Rudy.

“John!  You’re back!  How--I mean, did--”

“Hey, Rudy,” John cut him off.  This wasn’t a secure channel, after all.  “Is it my turn to buy at McQuaid’s?”

“Er, yes?  Yes.  That would be--um, say 11:30?”

They’d squeeze in right before the lunchtime boozers.  “Perfect.”

Disconnecting the call, John headed down the hall and paused at the door on the left.  It was slightly ajar.  As always.

Pushing it open, John surveyed the sparse collection of personal items.  With the exception of the sand castle molds, everything fit in a single pocket.  John scooped them up and then went to dig out the box of keepsakes from his dad.  A wristwatch.  Baseball glove.  Badge.  Everything that John would run into a burning inferno for if the apartment were on fire.

And then he laid down and tried to sleep.  But behind his closed eyes, all he could see was Dorian’s sightless gaze.  Man down.  John’s hands fisted and his muscles locked tight against the unbearable truth: he had left Dorian behind.

So the nap was a mission fail.

Thank God for coffee.

John brewed up a pot and filled his new stakeout thermos -- the one Dorian had given him for Christmas.  It had a lid.  “So that android eyeballs don’t fall in,” John had appreciated, gently slapping Dorian on the back.  Sharing the joke.

The coffee was gone by the time John pulled into the parking lot near McQuaid’s.

Rudy was already at a booth.  John bought the beer and sat down.

“How… how was it?  Over there?  How’d it go?” Rudy ventured.  Pretty bravely, all things considered.

John bit out, “Almost like a vacation.”

“Hm.  And Dorian?”

Somehow, John didn’t throw the table across the room.  “Friendly fire.”

Rudy’s shoulders slumped with relief.  “I’m sorry about that, but I think it’s for the best.”  His brows pinched up with concern and questions.

“If ‘by the best,’ you mean being knocked unconscious and left defenseless behind enemy lines.”

Rudy held up both hands at the growl eking out of John’s tone.  “It wasn’t an order.  It was an option.  If the situation was… stable.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

“Yes.  Let’s.  So, the first order of business?”

John felt a twinge -- that odd tingle that came from knowing this moment had already happened once before -- as he rasped, “Find DRN-494.”

“Right,” Rudy mused, already distracted by Step Two.  “I’d thought you and I might be of the same mind on it.”

John watched as Rudy pulled out the most gorgeous thing John had seen all damn day: his old hacker tablet.  Oh, yeah.   _ ** **Lock and load and move the fuck outta our way, assholes.****_

But, first: “You didn’t mention the repo storage facility to the captain,” John accused.

Rudy blinked, startled.  “Well, no.  Why would I?  There’s nothing to indicate Doctor Vaughn is involved.”

That was true and perhaps Dorian’s one and only saving grace: no one except for the three of them were aware of how close Vaughn had come to raising an android army.  No one else knew it had been Dorian who had nearly made that nightmare a reality.  But ever since the hub door had slammed shut behind him and he’d forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, one thought in particular had been scratching and digging away at his brain.  A thought that he could not ignore:

“Vaughn promised an android army to somebody.  Maybe somebody Anna didn’t know about--” and therefore somebody who hadn’t been arrested during those frenzied days of kick-in-the-door take-down and crack-down-- “maybe somebody determined enough to find another DRN to do the job for him.”

Rudy looked reassuringly doubtful.  It was nice to see how much faith he had in the city’s finest being able to do their jobs.  “Well, I suppose…” the roboticist reluctantly allowed.

“Look, process of elimination,” John argued.  “Besides, this is an issue we’ve dealt with before.”

“Yes.  Yes, right you are.  So--”  Rudy grinned.  Widely.  “Does this warrant a police escort?”

John rolled his eyes.  “I’ll be right behind you, Doctor Lom.”  And God help anyone who tried to cut John off on the road today.

The storage facility manager remembered John: “I should be charging for tours,” the man grumbled.

John beamed toothily as he palmed the surrendered key.  “Be glad I’m not turning the entire place inside out, pal.”

“A second time, you mean?” the man snarked.  “Or do you think it’s an easy spackle job to take care of bullet holes?”

“Hey, just to be clear -- that wasn’t all me.  OK?  Take it up with the Department of Homeland Security.  They’ll reimburse you.”

“Praise to Allah,” was the droll and disbelieving reply.

Yeah, well, it wasn’t John’s job to convince this guy to put his faith in either the fairness of life or the government.  In fact, there was really only one action item in John’s inbox at the moment and he wanted it done _****yesterday.****_

“I wouldn’t think that the second fleet of DRNs are all still here,” Rudy whispered although John had no idea why he’d bothered -- the sound of two car engines approaching and cars door slamming surely would have clued in anyone who was on the other side of the familiar and flimsy, rolling door.

“Yeah, but it’s due diligence to check.”  Like it had been due diligence for Dorian to scan Sandra just to make sure that she was still their boss.

John swallowed his heart back down into his chest.  “Besides, what you and I know, we should hope the bad guy doesn’t.”

“Never pegged you for an optimist,” Rudy blurted, startled.

“What can I say?  Our mutual friend has been a good influence on me.”  He sidled up to the lock and inserted the key.  “Stay back until I clear the unit.”

“Roger that.”

John slid the door open with a squeal and shudder of dry, hinged metal.  It all looked exactly the same except, this time, he was aided by afternoon sunlight pouring in.  John quickly scanned his way past familiar aisles of wooden crates, each stack still just sitting here gathering dust.  What a good job DHS had done of securing what could be classified as dangerous weapons in the wrong hands.  Jesus.

Dorian had nearly become that for Vaughn.  He’d nearly been the catalyst for untold destruction, but here in the dark, John had called out to him.  The memory files stored in John’s prosthetic leg had shown Dorian the way back.  If only it were that easy now.  If John could just say his name or… hell, even a kiss from a handsome prince… although, John was pretty sure he’d be equally shit outta luck if that was what it would take.

The unit was clear.  The fleet a mere shadow of threat rather than an imminent peril.

“Does this cross Doctor Vaughn off the list?” Rudy asked, clearly enjoying their ad lib ride-along.

“Nope,” John replied glumly, reluctantly holstering his handgun.  “It just moved him to the top.”

Before Rudy’s frown could manifest in more questions that, while charming, were not really helping John’s thinning patience and slow-building panic and deepening exhaustion, he instructed, “This time, you follow me.”


	16. Loophole

“Detective Kennex,” droned the receptionist stationed in the lobby of the city’s Department of Homeland Security branch office.  Yeah, she could look as unimpressed as she liked, but she’d still remembered John’s name, hadn’t she?

If Dorian had been standing next to him, John would have smacked his arm in a quiet aside and said, “See?  ‘Boring’ is not _****memorable.”****_

“Maybe she was dreading your return,” Dorian would have pleasantly snarked back with a faint smile.

John glanced to his left before he could stop himself and had to look away before Rudy could see disappointment flash in John’s eyes.  It was only a lost opportunity to gloat for Christ’s sake.

Yeah.  Sure.  Because disappointment and irritation, _****those****  _two John could handle.

“Miss Wallace,” John answered because, yeah, he remembered her, too.  He even had a vague recollection of her asking Dorian if John needed a moment to sit or a glass of water.  Right after Anna had been deactivated.

She accused, “I wasn’t aware that you had an appointment with us.”

“An oversight,” John replied but didn’t specify whose.  “Given the state of things out there--” He nodded toward the streets where, blocks away, protesters were still protesting and multiplying like rabbits.

_****What’s up, doc?** ** _

John continued, “I think it’s long past time somebody had a face-to-face with your newest asset.  Doctor Nigel Vaughn.”

“Doctor Vaughn isn’t here.”

Of course not.  “I didn’t drive all this way for a hug, ma’am.  A holo-meet will do just fine.”

Her lips pursed.  “Holo-meetings have to be pre-approved.”

Rocking back on his heels, John smiled.  “Happy to wait.  Just, do DHS a favor and tell whoever is in charge of setting that up that Vaughn would appreciate any information I can tell him about the DRN I work with.  Dorian.”  He squeezed the name out between his teeth and then spun away and toward the lounge area rather than stand there and enjoy the scrutiny of a trained DHS agent and the man who considered himself Dorian’s best friend and relationship enabler.

Too bad Rudy followed after him like a lost puppy.  “Um, John.  Don’t I need to sign in?”

John gestured him back toward the standing desk where Miss Wallace had her hand poised on the intercom.  “Yup.”

“So, I should...?”

John quirked a brow.  “You’re really comfortable with me paraphrasing your reasons for visiting?”

“Ah.  Right.”  The scientist spun around to address the issue of adding himself to John’s ticket: “Doctor Rudy Lom, robotics specialist.  I regularly work with DRNs -- er, worked, I suppose is the correct conjugation of that verb given the unfortunate events of recent--”

“And your business with Doctor Vaughn concerns…”  Miss Wallace cut in smoothly and John had to smile.

“Well, DRNs of course.  Specifically, the one that’s missing.”

“And these are issues that the city’s foremost expert in DRNs is unable to resolve?”

“Um, you see, the city’s expert on DRNs would be, ah, me.  With the exception of their creator, Doctor Vaughn, of course.”

“Of course.  Please have a seat, Doctor Lom.”

Rudy did as he was told, lowering himself gingerly into one of the pristine armchairs.  John loitered around like a man waiting for the getaway car to come peeling around the corner burning rubber.

“So now we wait,” Rudy mused, filling the silence.

John agreed, “We wait.”  As unhappily as they liked because when did agreeable people ever make headway that hadn’t already been trampled by someone else?

Rudy sighed.  Shifted.  Glanced back over his shoulder toward the reception desk.

God damn, but John missed Dorian.

“How long?”  Before John could do more than raise a brow in wordless retort -- _****“As long as it takes.  Duh.”****_  -- Rudy elaborated, “How will it take them to set this up if--”  Shrinking back slightly at the dark glower this pulled from John, he hastily amended, _****“when****  _our request is cleared?”

“Depends,” John drawled.

“On what?”

“On how cagey Vaughn has been with them and how urgently they need information.”

“You think Vaughn will talk trade secrets in exchange for news on Dorian?”

Now John raised both brows.  “Wouldn’t you?”

“Well of course I would, but I care about him.”

Oddly enough, Rudy’s assertion calmed some rough, itchy spot deep in John’s chest.  Huh.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d been struggling to suck in each breath until, suddenly, it was almost effortless.

Twelve minutes later, John and Rudy were approached by two junior agents.  Not to toss them out on their asses, but to escort them to an interview room equipped with holo recorders and projectors.  John did the math and had to fight back a satisfied smirk.  Whatever DHS was trying to weasel out of Vaughn must be pretty damn exciting -- John had figured the green light and setup would take at least fifteen minutes.

Less than thirty seconds after John and Rudy had been scanned, the projector over their shoulders flickered and a hologram of Doctor Nigel Vaughn shimmered into the seat across from them.

He looked... irked.

“Well, hell, Doc.  You don’t look happy to see us.”

“You’ve no notion of the hoops I was required to jump through to earn the ‘privilege’ of this meeting.”

John didn’t bother to bite back a snort.  “Has the bloom gone from the rose so soon?”

Vaughn retorted primly, “As a condition of my plea agreement and signed confession, I am to be provided with news pertaining to my field.  All news.  Not news redacted to the point of gibberish.”

“Yeah... incarceration and all.”  John mocked, “Maybe you should’ve looked that one up beforehand.”

“No matter.  Finer points to be dealt with later.”

Wow.  The guy might be egotistical, calculating, and suffering from a serious case of overestimating his importance to the rest of the known world, but at least he was optimistic.

“Tell me about Dorian.”

“He’s been taken offline.  Shut down.  What the hell else would you expect?”

“What!?  Why?  Did he break protocol?”

“What makes you think that?” John goaded and Vaughn immediately realized his error.

Rudy sat forward.  “So they can?  The DRNs _****can****  _break protocol.  It’s a design feature and _****not****  _a malfunction.”  He stared at Vaughn for a moment before giving himself a brief shake: “Right, I’d say it’s good to see you again and ask how you are, but given what you did to my lab--”

“And the police and the citizens of the city,” John belligerently tacked on.  Not to mention the physical damage Dorian had sustained in the fight against the XRN and the emotional trauma of Vaughn’s betrayal… but no way in hell was John cluing Vaughn in to how much he’d wounded Dorian.  He didn’t deserve anything resembling a significant position in Dorian’s life.

“Yes,” Rudy fervently concurred with John.  “I believe you’ll have to re-earn any consideration--”

“Or banal social niceties,” John added in an obnoxious sing-song.

“--from us.  So.  Please answer the question forthrightly.”

Somehow, John did not roll his eyes.  “If you ever want the proud papa moment of seeing your androids in operation again, answer Rudy’s questions.”

Vaughn sighed.  “Very well.  Yes, DRNs can break protocol.  If a life hangs in the balance -- especially the life of an innocent bystander or a would-be victim -- then DRNs have the option of bypassing protocol.”

“They can choose to ignore it?” Rudy stressed.

“’Choose’ isn’t the word I would use.  It depends on a multitude of interdependent variables and--”

“Children,” John butted in, riding a brainwave.  “To save a child’s life, a DRN could go rogue.”

“Again, rogue is not the correct--”

Who gave a shit?  Not John.  He was already tuning Vaughn out because yeah it was starting to make sense now.  That was how DRN-494 had broken protocol in the first place back when he’d still been on the force.  He’d prioritized a helpless and innocent child’s life over the restrictions of standard police procedure.  Oh, Christ.  The loophole had always been there and no one had thought to look for it.

“--the law is hardly perfect even in the clearest of circumstances,” Vaughn prattled.  “I was merely attempting to give the DRNs a framework that would prevent them from devolving into mindless robots like those despicable MXs.”

“Bullet catchers,” John agreed obliquely.

“Yes!  Precisely.  Thank you, Detective.”

“Anytime,” he mumbled and then let Rudy take over completely, quizzing Vaughn on the best methods for restoring the DRNs that had been forced into sudden shutdown by the deactivation signal and various other minutiae of robotics code and the sentient androids that depended on it.

Sentience.  That was the bee in the city’s bonnet right now.  Sentience had to be proven and, thus far, no one had done a very good job of designing a test that produced results worth a damn.

John would be the first to admit that he hadn’t been a believer.  Certainly not on his first day with Dorian as his partner and not on the second.  It had taken time and challenge after challenge -- it had required that John pay attention to each obstacle Dorian had encountered and how he’d approached it.  The specific words he’d used -- _****“We won’t make it to the 25th floor alive.”****  _\-- and the extremes to which he had been driven... all of that piled one on top of the other like flurries that gradually turned into a 10-foot snow drift.  Did John believe that Dorian was sentient?  Yes.  He believed it.  But he didn’t have proof.  He operated on faith and assumption.  The trouble was, most people went through life the same way... they just didn’t realize it.

And rather than attempt to prove that DRNs weren’t sentient -- because the same problem applied in reverse, didn’t it: what if sentience couldn’t be _****disproven?****  _ Rather than risk opening that can of worms, the city council had shut them all off.  Labeled the entire line a menace -- a threat to society.

And if Dorian was ever going to be a cop again -- if the spot left vacant at John’s side was going to be filled again -- then somebody was going to have to show the world that DRNs were _****people.****_

Yeah.

OK.

Piece of cake.


	17. Parking Lot

“Rudy,” John asked as they headed for their cars in DHS visitor parking.  The temperature had dropped.  It was snowing.  It was a futile effort to count up the snowflakes, but John found himself attempting a running tally.

“Yes?”

“When you were a kid... I mean, were you always interested in robots and androids?”

Rudy’s brows lifted.  John had impressed him somehow.  Huh.  Maybe John would ponder exactly what he’d said right at some point in the indefinite future.

“No,” Rudy answered, “I was always _****fascinated****  _\-- obsessed, even, according to some -- with robotics.  Why do you ask?”

Before Rudy started thinking they were on a date or something, John barreled onward: “You have many friends you could talk to about that stuff who were on the same level?”

“Well, no.  Of course not.  Not at that age.  Or in those days.”

Yeah, kids today were leaps and bounds ahead of where John had been academically at the same age.  “So who’d you go to for, you know,” John gestured aimlessly, searching for the word, “discourse?”

Rudy’s charmed smile turned nostalgic.  “Professors.  My science instructor in primary school -- when I discovered her love for the field, well... many a school lunch found me in the classroom, an avid pupil.”

“Older women do it for you, huh?” John heckled because Dorian wasn’t here and John couldn’t think of anything sadder than letting an opening like that pass just because John was in a funk.  If John let himself turn into an emotionless MX, Dorian would never let him hear the end of it.  Once Dorian came back online, that is.

Rudy snorted.  “Yes.  Older.  Much older.  Professor Ansley was in her fifties.”  The man shook her head, “But she didn’t use that as an excuse to let her education slide.  She was always up on the latest developments.”  Rudy smirked.  “Detective Stahl has nothing to worry about.”

John barked a laugh and, once it was out, he realized how much he’d needed the moment of mirth.  “If only Vaughn’s information were as trustworthy.”

“Yes,” Rudy sighed out.  “With a grain of salt and so forth.”

“A truckload of the stuff,” John grumbled.

“Regardless of how misleading the man may have been just now, I will have something for you by the time it’s safe for Dorian to--”

“I appreciate that,” John interrupted because as much as he did truly appreciate it, he could not let himself think that far ahead -- to waking Dorian up again and all the relief he would feel.  John couldn’t let himself anticipate it lest it distract him from achieving the goal of it.  Dorian was depending on him not to drop the ball and the Devil was in the details.

“Thanks,” John blurted as Rudy turned back toward the lab truck, delaying the drive back for both of them.  “I know Vaughn’s not your favorite person in the world -- mine either, but--”

“If anyone knows how we can save our favorite _****person--”****_

John’s brows pitched upward at the man’s pointed stressing of the word.  Dorian was a person and it seemed John wasn’t the only one who thought so.  He wondered briefly about Sandra’s personal views on it, but Rudy was circling around as if caught in a verbal time loop.  Broken record mode.

“-- our collective favorite, I mean,” Rudy was near-babbling, “as I don’t think you enjoy Detective Stahl’s company quite as much as I do--”

John chuckled and put out a hand to halt Rudy right there.  Keeping Rudy from falling on his own sword because God only knew what would come out of the guy’s mouth next.  So John was just being a friend and all.  “I don’t.”  But he might have if John had met Valerie Stahl before the coma, the raid, and the robot girlfriend... maybe he would have made the effort.  “If we’re talking favorite people, yeah.  We’ve got some overlap.  One,” John clarified, index finger extended.

There.  Right there.  That look.  Because yes, John agreed that Dorian was a person.  And now Rudy knew that John was on the same wavelength.

And if the way Rudy’s mouth softened into an emotional smile was anything to go by, the guy was experiencing some serious feels.  “I’m so glad he has you, John.”

Say what?  Did Rudy know that John and Dorian cohabitated in the fullest meaning of _****what’s-mine-is-yours?****  _ No.  No way.  He didn’t have proof, anyway, and that was all John cared about.  Or should have.  But it wouldn’t be a bad idea to redirect this conversation right about now.

John cocked his head to the side and buried the defensive twinge behind a puzzled expression and bored tone: “It’s funny to hear you of all people say that.  You’ve told me often enough that it’s the other way around.”

“Yes, I did, and I meant it.  It was true.  Then.”  With a satisfied nod, Rudy concluded, “And finally, so is this: you’re good for him.”

Sure.  Of course.  Dorian was here -- Dorian existed -- because John would destroy MXs on sight.  Pretty much.  It was even odds.  As soon as they opened their fat mouths, though, and started in on the cold, calculating logic it was game fucking over.

But it was clear by the look in Rudy’s eyes that that wasn’t what he’d meant.  Well, shit.  Rudy did know.  In fact, Dorian had probably given him the proverbial front row seat to everything from their first day as partners to where Dorian’s charger had initially been located snuggled up next to John’s bed.  Well, the highlights at least.

Enough to get John demoted out of the Delta Division and Dorian tossed onto the scrapheap.

Thank God Rudy used his powers for good and not evil.

Speaking of evils...

“What can you tell me about the deactivation command?  Is the signal still active?”

“It would be transmitting in pulses at this point,” Rudy replied and thereby indirectly informed John of the fact that Rudy wasn’t the one that the council had tasked with shutting off every single DRN in the city.  “Staggered intervals on a rolling algorithm.  Androids won’t be able to anticipate the next transmission without access to the key.”

“They can’t figure it out for themselves?”

“Well, no.  I mean, there’s no way they’d be able to gather enough data because, if the signal reached them in any way, they’d be deactivated.”

“But they might know when the others had been hit by it.  Assuming they’re all on the same network,” John hinted.

“Oh.  Yes.  Perhaps,” Rudy allowed.  “If enough deactivations occurred at intervals after the steady transmission was turned off and pulses were initiated…”

John speculated, “If a DRN were hiding, shielded from the signal, and had taken note of when the others suddenly went offline, he’d know when and for how long to stay put.”

“Which he could do indefinitely if he had a power source for recharging and materials for constructing a rudimentary adapter.”

Right.  That was what John had figured.  And if a DRN escaped -- especially 494 -- then Dorian was never going to be able to set foot above ground again.  Even if John could somehow get Dorian turned back on, with or without Maldonado’s knowledge and/or permission, Dorian would be imprisoned underground on the other side of the Wall.  If they were talking about MXs, John wouldn’t have given the situation a second thought.  But Dorian wasn’t an MX and John couldn’t damn him to what amounted to a lifetime of incarceration.  Even if Dorian, like his creator, simply wanted to work.  By his own admission, Dorian wanted to be a cop.  He wanted to be _**here.**_

After all the choices that had been made beyond the DRN’s reach for the benefit of others, John figured it was about damn time someone put Dorian first.

“The signal’s pretty stable otherwise, yeah?  No glitches?  Weaknesses in the system?” John pressed, staring hard at Rudy.

“The…  Oh!  Oh, yes.  It would take a hacker of considerable skill and an intimate familiarity with the city network to interfere.”

Wow.  Rudy had looked almost innocent saying that.  If John didn’t know any better, he’d be inclined to think Rudy wasn’t at all interested in putting his hacker alter ego Aphid on the case.  Luckily, John did know better.

“Good thing bugs can’t get in.”

“They may be little, but they are destructive,” Rudy agreed, clinching the deal.

John nodded.  “Glad to hear it.  Drive safe.  I’ve got some things to look into and then I’ll probably be giving you a call.”

Rudy nodded.  “Yes.  Do that.  Always happy to help.”

And with an opening like that...

“So I have you to thank for the mess that is my private life,” John muttered.

“It was a mess before you met Dorian,” the man had the gall to argue.  Impishly.  The way no robotics-loving nerd would have dared to contradict the White Cheetah back in high school.  But John wasn’t the White Cheetah anymore and Rudy did have a point.  John was man enough to concede.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” the man said, moving purposefully toward the driver’s side door of the lab tech truck.

“Yeah, yeah.  What do you want from me, a contract signed in blood?  He’ll get to use those damned sand castle molds you got him someday, OK?”

“I should hope so.  I’ll be waiting for your call, Detective.  And good luck.”

Good luck.  With the case?  Sure.  With bringing Dorian back to a world that tolerated him?  Absolutely.

And because there was nothing more John could do here with his remaining daylight, and since he was supposed to resting at home, that was where he went next.  Home to his comms setup and remote department database access.  He looked up all the things he would have just asked Dorian to check out... not because John couldn’t or because he was too lazy to bother or because he was the human and the all-important reason for Dorian's existence.  John would have asked Dorian to access old case files and building blueprints and classroom rosters because progress ought to be made together.  And sharing the thrill of closing in on their quarry was what a good partner did.

John eyed the half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting in a shadowy corner of his kitchen counter and then glared harder at the display screen.  A drink wouldn’t make this easier.  It’d make it seem easier, yeah, but John was all too familiar with the fallout of “easy.”

Some time later -- much later than if Dorian had been working with him on this doing the heavy lifting -- John sighed and thumbed his phone screen active.  There was a message from Maldonado -- Paul had checked in.  Everything was holding stable.  Supplies were set for distribution in InSyndicate’s known territory.  First wave going out at 0800.

Which meant they hadn’t encountered significant resistance yet.  Dorian was still secure, but Paul’s task would be completed that much faster, making way for low priority action items.  Like shipping damaged androids back to civilization.

Time was running out.  Was there any point in even trying?

Maybe not.

But John couldn’t back down.  No way.  Not now.  Not ever.

Still, he paused because, yeah, he knew what he _****should****  _do.  He should update the captain and send in a warrant to be signed.  He should call tactical and get SWAT on-site immediately regardless of how long it took a judge to authorize a search.  He should call Rudy and tell him to bring an EMP rifle and a gurney.

If John did what he _****should****  _do, then, in under an hour, the DRNs would officially be a lost cause.

Gone for good.

John braced himself against the shiver that vibrated along his spine and dialed up Val instead.

“John!” she enthused, sounding delighted to hear from him and full of sunshine and sparkles and warm hugs and it just made his next words that much harder to say, knowing where they would lead, knowing that there’d probably be no going back.  Not in John’s lifetime, anyway.

He knew the risks.  He was aware of what he’d be giving up in the process.  And one day, John would have to make peace with that.  But there was no getting around it: in order to get results that John could live with, some sacrifices were going to be necessary.

“Hey, Val,” he said, and stuck to the plan.  “Got a Chrome question for you.”

God bless her, she didn’t get defensive.  John would have.  But she was a helluvalot smarter than him, anyway.  She did pause, though, as she thought it through... and if her next words sounded a bit sad, well, it was probably just John’s imagination: “Go for it.”

So John did.  “You know anyone with the ambition and influence to lobby for a good cause?”


	18. Bullpen

The fine art of looking busy.  Busy work helped a little, but John knew he was out of practice.  When he was off-duty he either kicked back with a doughnut and flagrant disregard for admirable work ethic, or he was genuinely busy, following a lead or a hunch on his own time because being a cop was _****worthy****  _of John’s time.  Usually, when John was in Overachiever Mode, Dorian was with him.  Hell, even when it came to “paperwork,” Dorian was there, reading over John’s shoulder, heckling:

“Who taught you how to type, man?  A blind, barnyard hen?”

“Oh, yeah.  She was quite the chick, too.”

“Feathers do it for you, Kennex?” Paul would have rudely butted in and John would have returned fire: “Lookit you.  Interested in what does it for me.  How cute.”

“Which makes me better looking than you.”

“And twice as annoying as an MX.”

“I still look better standing next to mine than you do beside Dorian.”

And, in a perfect world, Dorian would pick up the gauntlet: “Who wouldn’t.  I have it on good authority that I’m flawless.”

“Excuse me?”  John would round on him, poke him in the chest for good measure because even in this perfect world where Dorian could interrupt and participate in banter between senior detectives, Dorian was still John’s.  John’s and no one else’s.  “How’d you get ‘flawless’ from what that quack of a cosmetic surgeon said about your nose.  Your _****nose,****_  dude.”

“Which he labeled as perfect.”  Dorian would quirk a brow.  “And if I did have any flaws you would have pointed them out months ago.”

“Yeah?  I was just being polite.  You have flaws.  Tons of flaws,” John would pester at Dorian’s blatantly indulgent expression.  “And _****that’s****  _why you latch on to that crank’s skewed opinion.  Having flaws bugs you bad.”

“His opinion isn’t as skewed as your nose.”

“Jealous of my wealth of character, eh?”

“Yes, John.  I aspire to be as acerbic and cantankerous as you.”

Biting back a sigh, John focused on his terminal screen because the time he was killing right now might one day lead to that very scene playing out right here in this very room.  But timing was everything.  Paul had checked in with the captain right before roll call: supplies were indeed rolling out to recipients and it felt like the timeline was ticking by so fast it blurred.

“John.”

Unclenching his fists, he leaned back, somehow summoning a politely interested expression.  “Captain.”

She nodded toward the form he was currently filling out, editing, and rewording his responses to with furious attention to detail.  “Leave that for later.”

“You giving me a case?”  It wouldn’t be unheard of for a Delta Division detective to be sent out to a crime scene so soon after coming in off special assignment.  Especially with them short-handed -- although, given that it was Paul they were missing and he was already short in more than one sense of the word--

“I want your insight on this missing DRN.  494.”

John let the seat absorb his full weight as he drummed his fingertips against the edge of his desk.  “Don’t really know what I can tell you about the guy beyond what his specs and programming say.”  John shrugged.  “He’s hard of hearing and is shit at remembering names--”

“John,” she scolded him and John knew why: he was talking about 494 like he would any other person of interest.  Like a _****person,****  _not a robot.  “From your time working with Dorian, you’re in the best position to point us in the right direction.”

“Me?  Not Rudy?”

She ignored the challenge.  “Where would a DRN hide?”

Hide.  The word was enough to make John’s chin jerk as his entire being Noped hard.  DRNs didn’t hide.  They were brave to the point of suicidal stupidity.  Which meant that someone else was involved.  John had a notion as to who that was and how, but it was only just past lunchtime.  Too soon.

John droned, “Well, somewhere shielded from the deactivation signal comes to mind.  Underground?”

Captain Maldonado’s brows arched at his blatantly unhelpful suggestion.  “Surveillance indicates no DRNs have entered the city subway system--”

Now that would be a pain in the ass to comb through, tunnel by tunnel.  Past the atriums, off the trains, and beyond the platforms, camera coverage was minimal and mostly infrared.  An obstacle that a DRN could easily get around by simply adjusting his core temperature.

Maldonado continued, “We can’t get search warrants for every basement, bunker, and underpass in the city and you know it.”

John did.  “Start with the ones that are city property.  As for the rest, what about rolling blackouts?  DRNs need power like any other android.  We shut it off, it draws him out.  If he’s even still up and running.”  John shrugged.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we found him shut down in a hospital broom closet.”  He tilted his head.  “Are we at the point where shutting down power grid-by-grid is an option?”

As options went, he could tell that she didn’t like it.  “I’ll put it on the table.  But with my best man on the case, I should expect it won’t be necessary.”

“Way to make a guy feel appreciated.”  And in the cross hairs.  He waved a hand at his terminal.  “As soon as I file this I’ll take a long look at the case.  See if lightning strikes.”

“Good.”  Despite agreeing with John’s action plan, she lingered.  “We all want to see Dorian working here again.”  When John nodded, muted by the throat-strangling need for that distant possibility to become reality, she concluded, “Tell me what you need to end this, John.”

This.  The fear and uncertainty and strife that was driving a wedge through the city.  Councilman Hart’s sudden influx of power and popularity.  The threat looming over every android with the presence of mind to contemplate the end of its own existence and the common sense to fear it.

“Yeah, OK,” John sighed.  “If I’ve got _****everything****  _there is in DRN-494’s service record, maybe I can drum up some options.”

“His service record?  John, his memory was wiped when he was decommissioned.”

“I get that,” John assured her, putting out a hand for a little leeway.  “But the people he encountered on duty wouldn’t have forgotten _****him.****  _ The ones with motivation, anyway.”

“Are you thinking abduction?”

“I’m thinking that if assuming 494 is on the run hasn’t led us to him by now, then it’s time to change up our approach.”  Palms up, he rationalized, “Can’t hurt to widen it.”

“OK.  Let me know.”

So John wrapped up the report he’d perfected twenty-five minutes ago and started in on the case file that he’d scrutinized at home the day before.  This time, he made notations and added links to additional resources.  People and places to check out.  Anyone with an ax to grind against the android police officer that had facilitated his or her arrest and conviction.  Something like five years had passed since then and far too many of them were out on parole.

John shook his head.  So tired and wrung out.  What was the point of it all?  Cops chased down the bad guys and then prisons belched them back out onto the streets.

Like herding cats.

“I’d bet you also have an issue with cats,” Dorian had once teased and the memory was a flashfire of emotion.  John’s sight blurred.  Blinking, he checked his watch.  He’d given his leg a full charge the night before and it was starting to itch from all this pointless downtime.  Maybe it was time to see about lunch.

He swung by Nuri’s, squeaking in just before last order and pretty much having the place to himself within the next ten minutes.  As Nuri sliced and diced behind the counter, one of his grandkids ran the archaic cash register.  The click of the keys and grind of printed receipt lines and ping of the drawer popping open and then growling shut amped up John’s own tension until his entire body felt like one stinging ulnar nerve.

He tried not to check his watch or stare at the clock on the wall.

Nuri placed John’s order in front of him.  Miso soup and pickled vegetables and an assortment of sushi.

“Where’s your partner?” the chef asked, glancing to the seat on John’s left where Dorian usually sat.

“He’s a DRN,” John replied.  “You’ve seen the news, right?”

Nuri shook his head.  “It’s not right.  He’s not like what they say.”

Crazy.  Unstable.  Untrustworthy.  A machine on the verge of malfunction.  “Yeah,” John said and suffered through the agony of knowing he _****had****  _thought those things.  Pretty much right up until: _****“You’re lucky you got the partner with the bleeding heart.”****_

John swallowed hard, remembering the moment he’d been yanked out of his own dim and elusive memories of the ambush, his heart pounding, refib-synchronizer thrumming against the clammy skin of his chest, Dorian looming over him, expression urgent and no-you-cannot-die-I-won’t-let-you.

Dorian had done more than just save John’s life.  He’d _****cared.****_

Now it was John’s turn to return the favor.

He took his time, trying to taste every nuance.  Focusing on the simple pleasure of fresh, well-prepared food.

The hollow feeling in John’s belly didn’t go away.

It was a relief to get back in the cruiser… until he found himself working to ignore the silence coming from the empty passenger seat.  At a red light, John distracted himself by scanning the park next to the road.  It was barely four o’clock but kids had already taken over the whole place, pushing joggers and zen-seekers out onto the quiet fringes.

Their sunny smiles and joyous shrieks -- sure, it grated on the nerves after about ten seconds of exposure, but what wouldn’t a person do for the sake of these lives?  These bundles of energy and potential and future greatness?

John checked the clock.  4:05.

Fuck it.  It was time for a brainwave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what the gizmo that Dorian presses to John’s chest in the pilot episode is called (you know, in the scene where John almost buys the farm from the Recollectionist’s chair) so I named it a re-fib synchronizer. Like, it forces an irregular or failing heartbeat back into a normal pattern?? Again + fibrillation + synchronization… or something.


	19. Primary School

Mendel Academy hadn’t smelled like a school.  More like an art gallery in a lauded architect’s paramount masterpiece.  Displaying children as the crowning achievement of their parents and not little disasters and happy accidents.

The air at Allen Anthenaut Primary, on the other hand was all funky shoe cubbies and the lingering aroma of room temperature bologna sandwiches.  Poorly rinsed milk cartons and stale PB’n’J.  Grape bubblegum and rubber soles.  Welcome to the world of ten-year-olds.

John had parked right in front of the double doors at the main entrance, feeling like he was entering an abandoned building.  Shoulders tight and holstered weapon snug against his rib cage.  From the outside, most of the classrooms appeared gloomily dim, but faint sounds echoed from open doors and bounced to and fro in the dreary hall.  The stutter of desks being shifted as a distant janitor straightened up rows and columns.  The scratch of red pens as exhausted teachers hunched over desks piled with worksheets in need of correcting.  This was the twilight following another day of controlled chaos.

John announced himself at the principal’s office and he was glad he’d left well before rush hour traffic because the principal was a fountain of questions.  That was fun.  He would have to tell Dorian all about how skillfully and charmingly John had handled the woman's scalpel-sharp questions.  Oh, yeah.  D had really missed out this time.

But John got what he’d wanted: the blessing -- however reluctantly given -- to wander the halls in search of a perpetrator.

 _ ** **Had a thought,****_  John had texted Captain Maldonado as traffic had zoomed past where he’d pulled the cruiser over beside the park.   _ ** **Start with schools in 494’s old district.  Non-invasive search.**** ** **T**** ** **erritory easily eliminated from possibilities.****_

And had gotten an almost immediate response: _****Should I bother to ask by what logic you’ve come up with this action plan?****_

Probably not.  He’d answered: _****A hunch.****  _ And then John had waited a very long minute before pushing further: _****Isn’t this why you keep me around, boss?****_

Five minutes later, she’d replied: _****Searches to start from 1800.  Call in with your location by 1730.****_

_****Copy that.** ** _

Sandra had given him almost an hour and a half for John to run down his supposed hunch and John had just found him right here in this gym, basecamped on the bleachers amid a forest of worksheets and textbooks and an abused backpack.  Probably last year’s.  Unlike his classmates, this kid hadn’t gotten a new one during the usual back-to-school shopping spree.  Clearly, money was tight and he had to make do with last year’s bargain bin offerings.  It was a small thing, but John could guess how tough it would make things for the kid.  Which maybe explained why he hadn’t buddied up with anyone and formed a fun little friendship fort.  Notebooks and eraser boogers covered the warped benches in these cozy islands of claimed territory.  Hands surreptitiously snuck into deflated backpacks for a contraband potato chip or caramel which the on-duty adult pretended not to see.  Or wasn’t paid to see, more like.  At the tail end of a long day, motivation was predictably waning.

On the gym threshold, John squinted past the kids stampeding back and forth across the basketball court to where a middle-aged man in outmoded bifocals and thinning hair was scowling.  The whistle around his neck designated him as the coach.  An unhappy one, if his expression was any indication.  Well, John would be scowling, too, if he were in this guy’s shoes and charged with tiring out desk-bound bodies enough so that the brain could focus on homework.  After-school programming at its finest.

He caught the man’s eye before approaching.  Not because John wanted to avoid causing a disruption, but because he _****did.****  _ And since the kids would be tuned in to what the person with the authority to dole out detentions was doing, the easiest way to shift their focus was to shift _****his****_  focus.  Well, mission: accomplished.

_****Head’s up, seven-up, kiddos.** ** _

John kept outside the foul line as he approached on a swagger, and then made a token effort not to cause a panic: angling away from the players, John showed his badge.  “Detective Kennex, Delta Division.”

Out of the corner of his eye, at least one pencil stopped in mid scribble on the bleachers.

“Roman Lindeck.  I teach third grade and coach basketball.  As you can see.”

Tucking the badge back into his pocket, John said, “Need you to wrap things up as quickly as possible today and make sure all the kids are out of the building.”

“What’s this about?  Drug search?” the coach speculated stiffly.

“Yeah, something like that.”  John removed the celo he’d borrowed from the school office which showed the building blueprints, including developments made since the site had first been surveyed.  “If you are aware of any popular hangouts, we’d appreciate it if you could let us know.  In advance.”

The coach nodded.  “Just a minute.”

With a blow of the whistle, he called an end to play and set the kids to running laps.  John used the moment to scan the bleachers and pretended not to see the way one kid in particular ducked down, staring at his homework while the others openly gawped at John.

Yeah, he’d made sure to project his voice up at the stands rather than mumble beneath the racket on the court.  He kinda wished his hunch had been off, but on the other hand, if the situation had been wildly different from what he’d expected…  Well.  Too late for regrets now.  He had a plan, which was good.  And John was ready for one damn thing to go in Dorian’s favor.

“If it’s not drugs, then what are you really looking for?” the coach murmured, arms crossed.  “I can tell you right now that the staff here are dedicated professionals who genuinely care about the students.”

Right.  Because that would be the other reason for police to take an interest in an elementary school: to gather evidence in response to accusations of improper behavior.  An investigation like that had the nasty habit of ruining careers regardless of what truth was uncovered.  No wonder John wasn’t feeling very welcome.

“Happy to hear it.  You keep an eye on current events?”  John prompted, “Android rights?”

The man blinked.  “You can’t think that anyone here would have something to do with the protests.”

“What I think is that this facility is city property and there are a couple of cozy corners where an android facing deactivation could hole up.”

“Android?  You mean one of those DRNs?  Why would the police think an android would be hiding here?”

Lots of reasons, actually, and one very big reason in particular which was hunched over a workbook and very obviously not writing anything down, but John stuck to the story, ticking off all the points that would make a school an appealing hideout for a DRN: “Shielded bunker and boiler room, emergency generator in the event of power failure, low risk of discovery -- unless there’s a disaster of some kind.  You’ve got to admit it’s one of the last places you’d expect anyone to check.”

“You suspect someone at this institution of illegally harboring an android?”

Wow.  This dude was a blast at parties.  John could tell.  He dodged the question: “This is just like any other search.  Meant to ensure the safety of the children and staff.”

“Hm.”

“Officers should be on-site at six o’clock -- everybody normally gets picked up by then, right?  The students will never even know we were here.  But I will need to make sure everyone leaves the premises by five-forty-five p.m.”

“Of course,” he agreed, clearly unhappy with the time frame he’d been given, but sensible enough to want everyone out of the way of the police.

“Now, if you could point out those areas where kids tend to hole up outside of school hours.”  John angled the celo accommodatingly and very considerately ticked the highlighter option.

At this, the coach bristled.  “No child is left unsupervised on the grounds, Detective.”

“Right.  Of course.  And nobody ever sneaks back in after everyone’s gone home,” John argued.  “I mean, kids always do what they’re told.  Following the rules is how they roll.”  At John’s sarcasm, the coach huffed in helpless agreement.  “Call me crazy, but I’d like to know what to be on the lookout for so accidents don’t happen.”

And since there was no way anyone could argue against measures meant to keep dumb kids from checking out of the gene pool before they hit puberty, the coach went ahead and tapped half a dozen yellow dots on the blueprints.

“Thank you for your time, Coach Lindeck,” John said and then made his way back to the cruiser.  It was time to find another parking space.  And make a call.

“Hey, Rudy.  How’s lab life?”

“As exciting as ever.  What can I do for you, John?”

“Looking for some info.  Can you confirm that the deactivation signal is still active?  What time is it supposed to hit next?”

“Oh, um.  Let me look into it?”

“Great.  I’ll need to hear back by six p.m.  That doable?”

“Absolutely.  I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Rudy.”  John hung up and then, since he had time to kill, he scrolled through his contacts and sent off an overdue text to a friend: _****You managing to keep up with the news?****_

And then John took a moment to just breathe.  It wasn’t too late to turn back, save his career, keep his home and friends and life in this city.  In exchange for Dorian.

Nope.

With a shake of his head, John wrenched open the cruiser door and squeezed out into the alley he’d parked in a block down from the school and in the opposite direction of the nearest subway station.

He found a street corner with a view of the school’s rear exits and slouched against a grimy wall, pretending to read through his messages.  Waited.  Waited.

The sounds of cars pulling up and idling at the front of the school started filtering back to John at ten after five.  Kids getting picked up as mom or dad got off work.  In the hubbub, John’s quarry would have the chance to make his move.  And then, just as the clamour picked up -- the five-thirty peak -- the side door beside the cafeteria’s loading bay creaked open a few inches.

Bingo.

John shrank back as a fifth-grade boy emerged, waving for someone to stay close and follow his lead.

An adult male in a slightly too-small hoodie.  Probably a woman’s by the too-short length of the bottom hem and faded purple color.

John caught a glimpse of a familiar and perfect nose as both figures turned away and trotted down the alley.  Toward the subway station.

John called it in: officer in pursuit of suspect.  Possibly a DRN.  Where was that fucking signal?

Dispatch promised to look into it.

John hung up and stuck close.  He didn’t have the cruiser’s EMP rifle on him.  Too conspicuous.  And besides, that signal should still be active, right?

One block turned into two.  Three.  Four.  The subway entrance was just ahead.  The boy and hooded figure merged with rush hour foot traffic and trotted down the steps.  John didn’t have time to radio in again and ask why that damned deactivation signal wasn’t working.

This right here was the worst case scenario.  It could take weeks to find a DRN hiding in the city’s maze of underground subway tunnels.  John darted down the stairs after them.

People milled around in discernible currents of coming-and-going.  John spied the kid at the ticket machine.  The purple hoodie slouched beside him.  Well.  This was hardly the ideal place or time, but John couldn’t wait.

He drew his gun, thumb on the safety and bellowed, “Police!  DRN, turn around with your hands up!”


	20. Arrest

“Police!  DRN, turn around with your hands up!”

The kid at the ticket machine jerked, glanced over his shoulder, and froze at the sight of John with his gun drawn.  The DRN in the wash-faded lavender hoodie did as instructed, sliding both hands from the hoodie’s front pockets and shifting very slowly to face John.

As the DRN moved, the boy next to him startled and screamed, “No!”

John adjusted his aim higher -- lined up a headshot that would miss the boy and deactivate the DRN instantly and permanently -- as the kid dived in front of his android friend, arms spread out.  “No!  You can’t take him!  He saved my life!”

“I don’t doubt that, Philip,” John placated, keeping his eyes on 494 and an ear trained on the sudden silence surrounding him.  “I know he used to be a cop.  And I know he saved your life.  But you’ve got to step aside now.  DRN-494 doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

“But you’ll hurt him!” Philip insisted, hot tears beginning to spill down his flushed cheeks.  “You’ll shut him off or send him to space and he won’t have anybody!”

“He’s an android, Philip.”

“He’s my friend!  His name is Forney and he’s my friend!”

“The detective is right, Philip,” 494 said quietly.  “You need to move aside and let him do his job.”

“But--but--this is stupid!  You’re not dangerous and you care about people and they can’t just take you away!”  Philip shook his head.  “You’ve got to run, Forney.  You’ve gotta live.  I promised!”

“I release you from that promise, my friend.”

“No!”

“Yes!  This is how it has to be, Philip.”  In less than a heartbeat, DRN-494 had spun neatly around the barrier that the boy’s body had made -- a move executed with grace and speed that professional basketball players would envy -- and presented himself to John.  “I’ll go with you.  Peacefully.  Please put the gun away, Detective.  I don’t want Philip or anyone else to get hurt.”

“OK.”  John guardedly lowered the weapon and holstered it.  “Turn around, hands behind your back, palms out, thumbs up.”

Snapping the cuffs on, John angled 494 toward the subway exit--

Just as a wailing blur of anguished boy surged toward him and kicked John squarely in his synthetic shin.

Which somehow hurt worse than if the kid had hit his real one.

“Philip!  Stop!  Please,” 494 begged.  He slid to his knees between John and his pint-sized assailant, who promptly grabbed the DRN by the shoulders and tried to haul him away.

“C’mon!  C’mon!  Let’s go!  You’re fast and strong and you don’t have to do this!  You can make it!”

“Sure, I could run.  I could run from this,” 494 agreed, “but this city is afraid of me and I can’t run from that.  I don’t want to.  I need to fix this, Philip.  I have to go with the detective.”

More tears.  The kid’s face was a hot, drippy mess.  And he wasn’t the only one.  When John had announced himself and ordered DRN-494 to turn around, bystanders had stepped back, made room, and pulled out their phones.  They were all still recording video of the arrest, some with lip caught between their teeth and moisture shimmering in their eyes.  The evening rush hour was at a heart-wrenching standstill.

And here John was: the bad guy in this little drama.

Great.  The cherry on top of this steaming dogshit sundae of a crisis.

“You can’t go.  They’ll kill you,” Philip choked out in a whisper that echoed like a scream.

“I have no regrets, my friend.”

Even a delusional ten-year-old who still believed in happily-ever-afters could hear the good-bye.  He buried his face in 494’s shoulder and held on tighter.

John couldn’t see the DRN’s face, but he clocked the low rumble of his voice -- an echo of Dorian’s voice saying words John dreaded to one day hear: “Thank you for being my friend.  Remember me?”

Philip nodded furiously.  “Forever.”

And with that, the bottom dropped out of John’s stomach.

Right.  Enough was enough.

Loathe to get any nearer the maudlin scene, John steeled himself and stepped forward.  He tapped 494’s opposite shoulder.  “It’s time.  Up you go.”

And no matter how tightly and tenaciously ten-year-old arms could cling, their grip was no match for the strength of a DRN, and as 494 stood, Philip slid back down to earth.

_****Welcome back to the real world, kid.** ** _

“North exit,” John directed his charge quietly, doing his best to ignore the sniffles and murmurs of _****this ain’t right it ain’t right they can’t do this.****_   All from the crowd.  Philip was rooted to the spot, shivering in shock and denial, silenced by pain.

John thought of Dorian.  He thought of the moment he’d left Dorian behind.  Shut down and defenseless on the other side of the Wall.

Yeah.  John knew what kind of hell that kid was in right now.  He knew.

John marched the DRN down the crowded sidewalk, past curious gazes and judgmental frowns.  Directed at John or 494?  It was a toss-up as to who was least popular right now, but John didn’t take the DRN back to the cruiser via alleyways.  He stuck it out the whole five blocks back to the car.  Opening the back door, John asked, “What’s your plan now, Forney?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would call me 494.  It’ll make this easier.”

“Easier,” John repeated with banked fury, staring at the DRN’s flat expression.  It was like watching Dorian disconnect from his own wants and opinions because he knew they didn’t matter to anyone but him.  Couldn’t matter.  Shouldn’t.  Not in a world where androids were analogous to race cars and toasters.

But the world was on the cusp of change.  Too bad this DRN hadn’t gotten the memo.

So John delivered it: “You want easier or you want what matters?  You let people call you by your ID number and nobody is gonna lose a wink of sleep over it when you’re shut off for good.”  John had to resist the urge to poke the android -- Dorian’s brother -- square in the chest.  “What you and Philip have -- if you don’t step up and fight for it, then you deserve to get shut off.”

The DRN blinked at him.

John blew out an angry breath and pointed to the back seat.  “Get in the car.”

He obeyed silently, but just before John slammed the door shut, the android asked very quietly, “Will you help me?”

 _ ** **I’ve done all I can do,****_  John didn’t say.  He scowled, “Time to make yourself some new friends.”

Because as much as Philip loved Forney, a ten-year-old boy wasn’t in a position to file a motion to delay the city’s deactivation order.

Luckily, that very person was waiting in the atrium of the department and latched onto her new client the moment John nudged him across the threshold.

“DRN-494?  My name is Samantha Rubin.  I’m an attorney and believer in android rights.  I’d like to represent you.  Help you.”

John snorted.  Played along: “There’s no saving this one.  You’re wasting your time.”

“Am I?” she asked the android.

To his credit, 494 didn’t even look John’s way as he lifted his chin and said very clearly, “I would gladly accept your assistance, Ms. Rubin.  And please, call me Forney.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across a tumblr post (at least, I think it was a tumblr post?) many moons ago that was essentially an Almost Human AU prompt wherein Dorian becomes an android rights activist and leader of the android rights movement. Protests become violent to the point of terrorism and John is sent to hunt down his former best friend. (I wish I could find the original post. If you know what I’m talking about, please let me know!) Obviously, I didn’t use the prompt in its entirety, but I want to credit its creator for inspiring several key aspects of this fic. Thank you, mysterious fanfic enabler!! (^_^)


	21. Cavalry Charge

“I don’t know what to do with you, John.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d heard those exact words from Captain Sandra Maldonado.  The last time, they’d been huffed out in pure frustration.

Now, they came out on a sigh of helplessness.  Despair and awe.  She hadn’t expected him to throw himself under the bus for the sake of giving the DRNs a chance to be heard.  To tell their side.  To fight for the right to exist.

Although, if there had been another play, he sure as hell hadn’t seen it and Sandra sure as hell hadn’t clued him in.  Probably because she hadn’t known what to do about it, either.  How to fix the world so that Dorian could still be in it.

At least she’d offered John a seat to lounge in this time.

“The brass aren’t too happy with you right now,” she said, watching him carefully.

“Because I did my job,” John retorted, fed up with the whole song-and-dance and not bothering to hide it.

“In the middle of a public place surrounded by people who--”  She broke off and shook her head.  “You’ve brought even more attention to the plight of DRNs.”

“Plight?”  Since when was the misery of androids a blip on the department’s radar?  “What are you talking about?”

“This.”  She cued up a video file -- no doubt only one of dozens that had been posted to the Net as John had walked the DRN out the subway exit.  John watched from the opposite angle as Philip sobbed into 494’s shoulder and the way 494 leaned into the child’s embrace, _****the look****  _on the android’s face...  No, John hadn’t been in a position to see any of this then.  There was no looking away from it now, though, as the android’s lips mashed together and his brow beetled and his eyes squeezed shut in undeniable anguish.  Heartbreak.  This was what heartbreak looked like on a human face, but here it was on an android’s.  Yup.  Here it was.  For all the world to see.  And now that they had seen it, they’d have to deal with it.  There were too many videos and too many witnesses and this wasn’t the sort of thing a politician could sweep under the rug and then have any hope at all of being re-elected.  More like burned in effigy.

“I can’t send you out onto the streets with this out there.”

John scoffed.  “You can’t possibly think I’d be a target--”

“You already are.”

“Oh, c’mon.”  Thrusting a hand toward the screen, he ranted, “So what if this makes the police department and city council look--”

“Bad, John.  Very bad.  I don’t think you’re appreciating just how upset some individuals are over this.”

Individuals.  Like Councilman Hart, perhaps?

Yeah.

It wasn’t Joe Schmo the civilian that John ought to be watching his back and looking over his shoulder for.  Well.  It wasn’t as if John could realistically expect any different.  Still.

Fuck.

“OK, so.  You need me out of your hair for a while--”

“We could use an extra pair of eyes here in the office.”

A desk.  A fucking desk -- that was what she was offering him.  Wry and rueful and didn’t that just fucking figure, John let his gaze rove over the view of the bullpen, shaking his head slowly.  “You know there is a place you can send me where I might do some good.”

“Not yet.”

His head snapped around.  “Why not?”

“I need you to stick around for a bit.  Look over a couple of case files for me.”

“Desk work,” he scoffed.

“You’ll thank me.”

Well, yeah.  He probably would.  Sandra hadn’t let him down once in all the time he’d known her.  If she had a plan in mind, sure.  OK.  He’d play.  So long as she didn’t try to partner him up with an MX.

“OK.  Case files it is.”  He slapped his thighs in resolution and rocked to his feet.

“Tomorrow, John,” the captain added in a tone he knew better than to cross.  “You can get started on it tomorrow.”

John side-eyed her.  “You’re gonna draw this out.  Make it as painful as possible, aren’t you?”

She ignored the accusation.  “Go visit with a friend.  Get some rest.  See you at roll call.”

“Yeah,” John said, but didn’t go home.  If John really was on someone’s short list, then his apartment wouldn’t be safe.  Which had been why Sandra hadn’t straight-out told him to go there.

He parked the cruiser around back at Rudy’s lab and sauntered in as if he’d been invited.  Rudy, bless his over-excitable soul, didn’t hammer him with questions.  In return, John didn’t implicate him in hacking the deactivation signal and making sure it malfunctioned right when John had needed it to: from phone call to six p.m.

God, if John and Rudy had gotten their wires crossed or if Rudy hadn’t been able to throw the proverbial monkey wrench in the works and the override command had pulsed just then, DRN-494 would have collapsed right there in the alley behind the school.

And then Hart would have railed about how devious DRNs were and how close such a dangerous machine had been to hundreds of innocent children and how fortunate they all were that the city was prepared to take care of these androids for good.

Jesus.

Thank God -- and the Rothschilds -- for Rudy.

“Isn’t it my turn to buy?” John asked Dorian’s best friend, and Rudy grabbed his fedora off the hat rack that John had given him for Christmas.

“I do believe it is mine!”

They didn’t go to McQuaid’s.  Rudy drove John to Val’s where she answered the door with a warm smile and a corkscrew in hand.

Rudy insisted on doing the honors and John leaned against the kitchen island as Val filled them both in: “The videos shot in the subway have gone viral.  ‘494’ was the hashtag for the android rights moment days before this, but now it’s not just trending.  It’s gone supernova.”

“That kid in the spotlight at all?”

“Philip?” Val checked and John supposed that pretty much answered his question.

She informed him, “His interviews are crossing media venues.  It’s not just chats, blogs, and SNS.  Local news has an interview posted online.  This could be national by this time tomorrow.”

National.  Damn.  Dorian would be so disappointed that he’d missed all the excitement.

As though he’d read John’s mind, Rudy volunteered through gritted teeth as he manfully pried the cork free of the bottleneck one barely visible millimeter at a time, “I’ve--put together a compilation--recent news and such--for you to take--with you.”

_****Pop!** ** _

Rudy stumbled a bit, windmilling one arm.  Not the one connected to the bottle, thank goodness.  The man’s priorities were heart-warming.

John held out a hand for the wine, but Rudy ignored him and filled Val’s glass first, grasping the bottle by the base just like a waiter at one of those fancy posh restaurants that John had occasionally seen in movies and _****never****_  fantasized about setting foot in.

“Don’t expect you’ll have much time to get caught up on anything not directly related to your cases,” Rudy yammered on, “so it’ll be for when you finally have some downtime.”

Every slick word was coated in bullshit: the info wasn’t for John at all.  Well, not directly.  It was for Dorian to download and for Dorian to tell John.  Which was a really considerate gift, actually, because that was exactly how John and Dorian generally operated.  It was like an early house-warming present and John was very much ready to be _****home.****_   “Great.  Where is it?”

John watched as Val gestured for the bottle.  Her hands brushed Rudy’s and of course he didn’t hesitate to let her take over wine pouring duty.  John rolled his eyes and wondered if they were aware that _****obvious****_  didn’t necessarily translate to _****cute.****_

“Ah, here,” Rudy answered, fishing a data stick out of his jacket pocket and handing it over.

“Thanks.”

“And here’s something that might not be on there,” Val mentioned in an idle tone as she filled John’s glass and then Rudy’s.  John scooped up his own drink without fanfare, but Rudy’s she handed over directly and John glanced away to hide a smile.

So, OK.  Maybe those two were a little cute.

John prompted, “Oh?  What’s that, this thing I won’t know by going through Rudy’s Greatest Hits?”

Val flashed him a smile.  “Chromes are tired of living in a divided city.  They want the Wall to come down.”

“You’re serious?” Rudy blurted, turning toward Val because -- like John -- he was aware of the “risk.”  It was generally thought that everyone on the other side of the Wall hated Chromes.  Despised them.  Would dance on their corpses and piss in the champagne glasses.  So, yeah, a group of Chromes deciding to ignore the fear-mongering propaganda they’d been fed by their parents, teachers, and politicians, was a pretty big deal.  One that John had been hoping for, but not really daring to expect.  Hell, he remembered the knee quaking fear in the indomitable Valerie Stahl’s eyes when they’d entertained the possibility of the escaped XRN being used to cause a breach in the Wall.

But now Val was nodding energetically, beaming.  “It’ll happen.  One day, hopefully in our lifetime.”

“Yeah?” John asked, charmed by the about-face.  “Who’s leading the cavalry charge?”  John asked... as if he had no idea.  Which wasn’t entirely true.  He had a suspicion from the brief and oblique conversation he’d had with Val over the phone the night before, but it’d be nice to get confirmation.

And when Val named the name, John wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Nor was he surprised to arrive at work after a night spent on Val’s living room sofa to see that very person seated in Maldonado’s office, looking bright eyed and bushy tailed in a way that made John ache to see Dorian.  So when Sandra called him in to shake hands with their visitor, John only put up a token resistance and shuffled his feet for show.

“John, this is Jake Bellman.”

“Good to see you again,” John said, offering his hand willingly.

“Likewise, Detective.  It was a surprise to see you on the news.  I’d have thought an assignment on the other side would have taken longer.  Clearly, they chose the right man for the job.”

John chuckled, quirking a brow at Sandra who was doing her best to squash a smile.  He drawled, “Spoken like a budding politician.”

“A mere lobbyist,” Bellman gently corrected.  “I find myself intrigued by the possibilities of what we can do for the people on the other side of the Wall.  I’ve got a proposal drawn up, but our chances of success will increase significantly if I can show that we’ve got someone capable in our corner -- someone willing to be stationed over there.  Someone who wants to make a difference.”

“Stationed on the other side of the Wall?” Captain Maldonado clarified.

“Yes.  A police presence.  We’ll need someone to uphold the peace, oversee the distribution of supplies, and keep teachers and medics safe.”

“Teachers and medics, huh?” John mused.  “It’s rough over there.  Even if they’re trained for combat and self-defense, it’s too much to hope we won’t lose anyone.”  Titling his head back, John spoke to the ceiling.  Just a little speculation that anyone present wouldn’t believe he honestly expected to go anywhere: “Too bad DRNs are out of the question -- I hear they’re all set up over there for charging -- repairs, even.”

Bellman’s eyes lit up.  “What an inspired idea.  I’ll see what I can do.”

As the club-owner-turned-lobbyist left, Sandra didn’t ask John if he knew what he was doing.  She didn’t warn him against choosing sides: Chromes had built the Wall and they wouldn’t care who was working to tear it down.  If they couldn’t convince Bellman to see the error of his ways…  Well.  Things could get awfully interesting.  

No, Sandra didn’t say what John was thinking.  Instead, she said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Yeah, she’d already seen where this whole thing -- and John himself -- was heading.  And she was smart enough not to waste her breath trying to talk him out of it.

He nodded once and said, “Thanks.”


	22. Grand Jury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a whole lot of nothing about legal stuff... as you will see in this chapter... but yeah let's just go with it, hm?

When John’s phone chirped just as he was coming back from lunch, he only grunted at the name on the screen before answering.

“Samantha,” he greeted.  The sinking feeling in his gut deserved zero percent of his attention: he’d known she’d be calling.  He ought to be glad it was happening sooner rather than later.  Paul’s updates could only go on being reassuringly boring and worryingly catastrophe-free for so long.

“John!  Are you taking my calls now?”

“I was never not taking them,” he retorted and did not mention the timely text he’d sent off to her right before DRN-494 had poked his head out of the school cafeteria door.  Hey, John had just been making conversation, not suggesting that she tune in to trending hashtags.  That was John’s story and he was sticking to it.

“Oh?  I must have imagined that time Dorian answered your phone for you.  And the dozen or so messages I’ve left.  Clearly, I dreamed those up.”

“Must have.”

“Are you putting up with me now because you’re hoping I’ll invite you to lunch?”

“Nope.  You just missed the big event.  Haven’t got any plans for dinner, though.”

“Well I’ve just finished interviewing my client.  Where are you?  I want to see that darling scowl of yours when I suggest a French place with the most charming dress code.”

The woman was pure evil.  “Hey, if that’s all it’ll take to make you happy.  I’m just now walking my scowl into the precinct--”

“Well, hold off on that.  It’s a nice day.  I’m coming to you.”

John did as he was told, swerving toward a spot along the wall outside.  “You prepared to keep me entertained while I wait?”

“Maybe.  What would you like to know?”

“How’d that kid, Philip, end up finding the DRN that saved his life years ago?”

“Ah.  A friend of a friend.”  In other words, 494’s network.  “When Philip had to go to the hospital for a mild concussion last month, he mistook the DRN on staff there for the police officer who’d come to his rescue.”

“But they sorted it out,” John concluded.  “And just what did the kid say to convince 494 to go against his programming and run away?”

“Not a thing according to my client.”

Yeah, but it wasn’t like 494 would throw the boy to the wolves, and there’d be a seriously hefty civil lawsuit coming that kid’s way if 494 gave testimony indicating that Philip had had a role in orchestrating his disappearance.  

But 494 wasn’t going to mention his group of concerned synthetic “citizens,” either.  See, John hadn’t forgotten how 494 had supposedly convinced Wonda to not report what she’d witnessed the night Councilman Fred Billings’ home had been targeted by armed assailants.  So it was within the realm of possibility that 494’s android pals had convinced him to accept Philip’s help.  Maybe they’d even found a loophole that allowed them to mark the city with graffiti, drawing the attention of everyone to a single, missing android and making them wonder why he might have vanished.

John had fallen into the trap as if it had been tailor-made for him.

Maybe it had.

Now there was a thought for his paranoia to sink its coffee-stained teeth into.

“Right,” John drawled, equal parts exhausted and cynical.  Squinting up at the sun, John mused, “So I’m just supposed to assume it was all 494’s desperate need for life that led to--”

“John Kennex?”

“Yeah,” John said without thinking, turning at the sound of his name like a putz because that was what people did, especially people who were being distracted by a phone conversation and an epiphany.

He turned around and found a blue pamphlet -- a court summons -- shoved into his grasp.

“You’ve been served,” an elderly woman in vintage bifocals informed him with a sunny smile.  “Have a nice day, dear.”

And this -- this was why he’d let Samantha talk him into delaying his return to the workplace.  This right here, as annoying as it was, was necessary.  Huffing out a resigned sigh, John flicked open the summons with one hand and growled into the phone: “All right, Samantha.  You’ve gotten your way.  Although I have no idea what the hell you think I can tell a grand jury that will help your case.”

“My client is a DRN--”

“Who I’ve spent hardly any time with--”

“And as the city classifies them collectively -- one indistinguishable from the other save for their ID numbers -- anything you can tell us about your time spent with Dorian should be applicable to Forney as well.”

Oh, John seriously doubted that.  But that was exactly the point Samantha was going to make: it was nonsensical to treat DRNs like members from a single batch off of the assembly line.  And if they were considered to be individuals, not because of who owned them but because they were unique in and of themselves, then any indication of sentience would naturally lead to the issues of personal rights and freedoms.

John sighed and checked the details of the summons.  “Under the circumstances, you’re going to have to find someone else to suffer through that fancy French dinner.”

“I suppose I shall.  See you in court, Detective.”

Dropping the phone into his jacket pocket, John grumbled his way through the precinct doors.  Those case files Maldonado had forwarded to him would have to wait until John figured out exactly what information he could legally divulge about Dorian.  Looked like the rest of his day was booked solid.

The captain didn’t look at all surprised by the subpoena in John’s hand.  “What time?” was all she wanted to know.  Hell, she hadn’t even bothered to pretend not to know that the grand jury was convening tomorrow.  When John answered, she made a note of it on the roster--

_****John Kennex -- COURT** ** _

\--and suggested, “You might consider a suit.”

“It’s not a funeral.”

She talked over his protest: “I’ve still got a couple of your dad’s.  Why don’t you stop by and see if they fit.”

It wasn’t a request and that was how he ended up spending the night in Sandra’s guest room.  Well, after wringing a smile out of her by noting how well the bloodstains from a couple of weeks ago had come out of the living room rug.  Giving her a laugh was the least he could do in exchange for making her dig his father’s old things out of the closet.

Her blouses lined up next to crisp, men’s dress shirts: so what if she was still carrying that torch.  It wasn’t as if John was one to cast stones.  So he complimented her foresight on having stain-resistant carpet installed and offered to nuke a couple of instant meal packs in the microwave.

They ate their glorified MREs like troopers and the camaraderie steeled John for what loomed on the horizon.  In a little over twelve hours, he’d be going on record talking about Dorian and there was really no way to know how that was going play out down the road.

He couldn’t even ask Sandra to help him not screw up.  For that, he’d have to trust Samantha not to push for too much.

But it was her job to push, so he braced himself as he took the indicated seat across from the prosecuting attorney and 494’s eager legal team of defenders.  The courtroom was suffocatingly small and it riled him up before a single question was asked.

“Detective Kennex,” Samantha began, “please state your name and profession for the record.”

Sure.  Why not.  Easy peasy stuff.  Questions meant to orient and lull him into a false sense of security, and then stupefy him with overconfidence.  Just like in interrogation.

“How long have you been a police officer?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“And all police officers are required to work with a synthetic partner?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes, that’s a regulation.”

“Describe your partner for us.”

Here, Samantha wanted John to slip up and use a gendered pronoun and blurt something like, _****He’s a DRN.****  _ Or maybe go one better and say, _****His name is Dorian.****  _ Well, too bad.  John wasn’t about to do the heavy lifting for her.  He said very deliberately, “I’m partnered with a DRN.”

“And what do you call your android partner?  ‘Hey, you?’  ‘Synthetic?’”

“Dorian.”

“I see.  And who initiated that?”

There was no avoiding personalizing the android now because John knew how juvenile it would sound to say, _****Well, it sure as hell wasn’t me.****_   John answered, “He did.  When we were first partnered up, he asked me to call him Dorian.”

“And did you?”

“Not at first.”

“What did you call him?”

“A synthetic,” John admitted, happily channeling his loathing for the MX that had given up on Pelham first and John moments after.  The anger burned any and all shame to ash.  “I referred to him as a synthetic.”

“Not anymore?”

“No.”

“Why did you stop?”

“He told me he wasn’t a huge fan of that term -- his words, not mine.”

“He confronted you over this?”

“Yes, and you can take my word for it when I say once was enough,” John grumbled.

Samantha arched a brow.  “You didn’t request a new partner after that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I refuse to work with an MX.  My choices were either Dorian or permanent desk assignment.”  John shrugged.  “In the interest of maintaining a good working relationship, I treat him like I would a human partner.”

“But he’s not human.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yet he has expressed an objection to being treated like a machine.”

“Yes.  Adamantly.”

“Why haven’t you pursued the issue?  Pointed out that he is in fact a machine?”

John snorted, picturing what a delightful scene that would be.  Maybe he could sell tickets to the show.  “It’s not that hard to treat him like a human.  He does good work.  I respect his abilities.  Listing all the ways he’s not a human being would be pointless.”

“Pointless?”

John sighed.  He didn’t really want to be the one to say it, but he supposed somebody had to and it looked like that lucky schmuck was John: “He’s got a lot in common with humans.  Points of overlap.”

“For instance?”

“He doesn’t want to die.”

“Are those your words, Detective Kennex?”

“No.  They’re Dorian’s.”  He had the full attention of the jury now.  “Just after a close call while on duty, Dorian said he didn’t want to die, even if it wasn’t the same thing for him as it was for me.”

“And what did you say in reply?”

John bit down on his pounding heart as it thundered up his throat.  “I said, dead is dead.”

“Dead is dead.”  Samantha paused as if considering those words.  “Do you believe your DRN partner, Dorian, understands what it means to die?”

“You’d have to ask him that.”

“I asked what you believe.”

If she really wanted to know, John would tell her.  He’d given her the chance to change the question, and she hadn’t taken it, so John answered: “He was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, damaged to the point of being at a killer’s mercy, an instant away from having his skull blown wide open, so yeah.  I think he knows what it means to die.  He definitely knows what it means to stop existing.  To be shut off.  He was decommissioned with the rest of the DRNs five years ago, and he told me what his last thoughts were then: he hoped there would be someone to wake him up again.  He knows how it feels to have his existence in the hands of others.  He knows what it means to have a second chance and he doesn’t want to waste a moment of it.  Or take it for granted.”

“You believe all that, Detective Kennex?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“You want hard evidence?  I can’t give you that.  You’d have to spend time -- a lot of time, day after day after day -- with Dorian to understand.”

Samantha abruptly changed tack: “Has your DRN partner saved your life, Detective Kennex?”

“Yes.”

“Is this your attempt to repay the favor?”

“No.  It’s his job to look out for his human partner and protect the lives of civilians.”

“That sounds rather... calculating.”

What it sounded like was _****no choice.****  _ John shrugged.  “He was recommissioned to work with me.  He’s very good at his job.”

“Why did your DRN partner save your life?”

“Obviously, I can’t tell you why.  If you want me to speculate--”

“DRNs are _****programmed****  _to protect the lives of the police officers they work with, aren’t they?”

Again, John deflected, “You’d have to check with someone familiar with DRN programming.”

“How do you feel about the fact that your DRN partner has been shutdown?”

“I’m not happy about it.”

“Why would you care one way or another?  You could do your job just as well with an MX, couldn’t you?  If that were your only option?”

Tricky question.  If John said no, he’d look incompetent.  If he said yes, he’d be disregarding Dorian’s own abilities and worth.  John shook his head slowly and served himself up to unending criticism and disdain: “I wouldn’t want to.”

“Out of sentimental attachment?  To the android that has saved your life?”

“No.  Because what my DRN partner brings to the table is unique, valuable, and in my opinion irreplaceable.”

“Plenty of things are irreplaceable, Detective.  The jersey you were wearing when your team won the championship in your senior year, a memento of your late father, the family photo album.  All of those you put on a shelf without a second thought.”

“It makes sense to keep them there.  Just like it makes sense to treat my DRN partner like a person.  Whether Dorian is or not, I can’t prove.  But it works.”

And there, John rested his case.

Coincidentally, so did Samantha Rubin.  “Thank you, Detective Kennex.  No further questions.”


	23. Bon Voyage

The prosecutor hadn’t even bothered to ask John a single question.

“Must have learnt his lesson with me,” Rudy boasted from behind his cluster of monitors.  “Tried to one-up the resident robotics expert, he did.”

Enjoying Rudy’s smirk in spite of himself, John shook his head and mused, “And I missed it.  Damn.”  But then he had to wonder, “What’d Samantha Rubin focus on with you?”

“Oh, mostly how DRNs integrate new data.  They may look exactly alike, but time and experience differentiates them from each other.  Unlike MXs which share something analogous to a hive mind, DRNs are meant to grow individually as they respond to their environment, co-workers, and the challenges they face.  Sort of like identical twins.  They might start out with the same hardware, but they become their own person in time, don’t they?”

“You think Dorian and 494 look exactly alike?” John said after a long moment because out of everything that Rudy had just said, yes, that was the only shocker.

Rudy looked up from his keyboard, frowning, but something he saw in John’s expression coaxed a bright grin onto his craggy face.  “There’s no one like Dorian.”

Amen to that.

Rudy cleared his throat.  “I imagine that defense attorney tried to get you to talk about, you know, feelings and such.  What it’s like to be friends with a DRN.”

“No, I think that kid Philip has got the friendship market cornered.”

“Really?”  Rudy glanced over.  “Then, if you don’t mind me asking, what did she want you to talk about?”

“Mostly, I just showed how much I don’t know and don’t care about his programming.  He’s my partner.  It’s not practical to treat him like anything less.”  John scanned the stained glass windows and admitted, “Plus, it’s not like it requires all that much effort to ask him how he’s doing or take him out for noodles to wind down after a tough case.”

Rudy nodded, looking pleased as punch with John’s enlightened attitude.  Eight months ago, he would have scoffed at himself.

“I think that may be one of the contributing factors to the breakdown that so many DRNs suffered after their integration into the police force,” Rudy admitted.  “No one asked how they felt or encouraged them to talk about the things they’d seen and experienced.  The humans around them were willfully blind to how the trauma affected them.”  Ducking his chin down, he muttered, “I suppose I’m guilty of that, too.”

“Oh?”  This would be interesting to hear.

“Yes, I should have attempted some sort of counseling session after repairs and before clearing them for duty.”

“A DRN isn’t a race car,” John summed up.

An apologetic smile tugged at Rudy’s mouth.  Yeah, he remembered that.  The very minute John and Dorian, who had still been oozing purple robot juice from being shot up during the showdown in the Sanderson building, had set foot in the bullpen, Rudy had leaped at them: _****“Hey!  I have a bone to pick with you!  Chewing gum?  Would you fix a race car with chewing gum?”****_

And John had ignored the analogy completely, stating factually, _****“Yeah, if it was busted and I needed to win a race.”****  _ Because that was how John was supposed to see his android partner.  Yet, instead of letting Rudy get started on fixing Dorian up, John had slapped his partner’s arm in passing and invited -- _****ordered****  _\-- him to go get some noodles.  Wind down.  Talk.

“So,” Rudy sighed, thankfully easing them both away from uncomfortable memories, “here you are.  Again.  Something I can help you with?”

“Don’t have a bot with me and I’m not looking for another one.”

“Well, obviously.  Yes.  I can see that,” the man snarked mildly, tapping one screen to standby mode and swiveling around to scroll through a data stream on another.  Surprisingly, he minimized the program window and called up a music file.  As a woman’s sultry voice poured from the speakers, filling the lab from corner to corner like the scent of expensive perfume, Rudy quietly observed, “So I’m thinking you’re here for something other than requisitions.”

John rolled a shoulder.  “Got a few things that might need looking after.”

He sat the duffel he’d hauled in from the cruiser trunk down onto The Table.

Rudy stood and moved to unzip it, but paused.  Glanced up at John.  Waited for John to tell him he’d be better off not knowing what was inside.

John gestured for him to go ahead.  He watched as Rudy gently shifted items around, expression softening and then burrowing into a sorrowful frown.  Yeah, not all treasures were made of gold.  In fact, most were actually pretty shabby.  An old baseball and mitt.  A man’s wristwatch.  A time-dulled badge.

“These yours or Dorian’s?” Rudy finally asked and, rather than mocking his sub-par abilities at deduction, John appreciated the man’s foresight and discretion.

John hunched his shoulders.  “Whoever’s.”  Depending on the parameters of the search warrant.

“So it’ll be a while, won’t it?  Before I see you and Dorian again.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“I take it Jake Bellman’s proposal has been accepted, then?”

“They voted on it just this morning.  Ink’s dry.  Op’s set.”  John summed up the selling points: “Thanks to private donations, the funds are there.  It’s a place for DRNs to go -- out of sight, out of mind -- and best of all they get me out of their hair until this whole thing blows over.”

Rudy nodded, processing.  “Right.  Right.  Do you, um -- I have some time… if you’d like a hand with packing up?”

“Sure.  Thanks, Rudy.”

There wasn’t much to pack up, especially with Sandra and Val chipping in.  John had already stripped the linens from his smartbed and shut the unit down.  The sheets had been laundered and folded and tucked into a closet well before John had made the drive to the lab.

He’d slept like a rock in his own bed the night before -- with his testimony given and willingness to head back into the war zone, there had been no point in anyone threatening him.  In fact, doing so would only lend weight to his assertion that DRNs could and should be treated like people.

It was almost too bad that John had been unconscious for most of his last night in his own home.  He would’ve liked to have enjoyed the experience more.  At least his new leg had gotten a full charge.

Rudy made a beeline for John’s spare and the charging port while John cleared out his underwear drawer and free-standing clothes rack.  Ten minutes -- done.  Sandra authorized the removal of his comms system from the department database access list.  Val went through the kitchen cupboards and fridge.

“I’ll send you some shampoo and hair gel in the next round of supplies,” she promised John with a twinkle in her eye as he folded unopened containers of his favorite products into his bag next to his razor, manicure kit, a box of Q-tips, stack of handkerchiefs, laundry detergent tablets, and hand sanitizer.  The shampoo and gel got the best seat in the house, or the duffel bag equivalent.  Right next to the bottle of olive oil.

Val teased, “Wouldn’t want you and Dorian to run out of things to argue about.”  Yeah, she’d heard Dorian razz on John’s haircut at more than one crime scene.

John felt himself smile, startling himself with proof that he still knew how.  But the moment deserved a smile -- John liked that there were people (besides John) who Dorian felt he could speak freely around.  Dorian deserved the chance to be himself, to not have to swallow back his opinions because he was an android surrounded by humans and constantly watched by the vultures in administration.  Yeah.  Someday, that scene John had envisioned taking place in the bullpen might actually happen.

Maybe.

“Gonna need some olive oil, too.”

“Olive oil?” Val unabashedly doubted.  Right to his face.

“Yeah.  Olive oil.  For the leg.  It gets creaky sometimes.”

“Right.”  She still didn’t believe him, but John was cool with that.

“John.”

He closed up his duffel bag and straightened.  “Yeah?”

Rudy held out a small case.

“What’s this?”

“Field repair kit for DRNs.”

“Let me guess -- no bubblegum?”

Rudy ignored him.  “There’s an activation wand and a portable drive with a diagnostic program.  In the event of a sudden shutdown, well.”

“Dorian could have some problems coming back online?”

“Possibly.  Minor ones.  His software might have some gaps -- like hiccups.  Just connect the cable to the port at the back of his skull and let the program run.  It’ll smooth things out until I can get him back in the lab.”

“Until you can--” John broke off as he realized: “This won’t fix anything.”

“No.  It’s not a cure.  It’s more like... management.”

Damage control.  John’s fingers clenched around the case.  “Like insulin shots for a diabetic?”

“More like an inhaler for an asthmatic.”  Rudy flapped his hands.  “You may never need to use it.  But if you find Dorian -- or one of the other DRNs -- repeating himself unnecessarily -- like a record skipping -- or if there are any odd hesitations or small blanks in short-term memory, hook that up and let it run.”

“Great.  How long does it take?”

“The first time might be as long as four hours.  After that, it could be as short as twenty minutes.”

“Got it.”  Meeting Rudy’s worried stare, John quietly promised, “I’ve got this.”

“I know.  I know.  You’ll do your best.”

But John’s efforts would be no substitute for Rudy’s expertise and they both knew it.

“C’mon,” John announced, patting Rudy’s shoulder.  “Time to load up.”

John powered on the apartment unit’s long-term security system and shut down all non-essential functions.  Locked the doors.  Stuffed the duffel and field repair kit in next to the box containing his old leg and the charger.

He hugged Val.

“I’ll make sure they don’t break the doughnut machine while you’re gone,” she said.  A true friend, that’s what Valerie Stahl was.  Yeah, John could finally accept that.  Here and now on the verge of a very safe distance yawning between them.  Someday, he might ask Sandra who had pushed for Val to join Delta Division and why.  But he hoped he’d never have to.

Rudy demanded a hug as well, his wiry arms surprisingly tight around John’s rib cage.  “I’ll look after Dorian’s sandcastle set, too.”

John glanced over toward Rudy’s truck and saw it sitting squarely in the front passenger seat.  “Yeah.  He’d like that.”

Sandra removed a tactical gear pack from the backseat of Val’s cruiser and placed it without a word in John’s.  Then she claimed shotgun and they rode together -- just the two of them -- in silence all the way to the precinct in District 12.  John parked, but neither one of them reached for the door handles.

She confessed, “This wasn’t what I’d envisioned when I paired you two up.”

John could believe that.  “Nobody saw this coming.”

“Say the word and I’ll pull the assignment.”  John looked her way as she suggested, “We wait a week or two.  Things calm down.  Maybe Dorian can come back.”

Maybe.   _ ** **Maybe****  _wasn’t good enough for John and he’d already left D without backup for too long.  “I’ve got the chance to go over there now.  Who knows if it’ll still be an option tomorrow.”  Let alone a week from now.

“Yeah,” she agreed, unsurprised.  Yeah, they’d both known what John’s choice would be.  “Stay safe, John.”

“You, too, Sandra.”

She gave him a hand hauling his stuff past the security checkpoint, foisted a brisk hug on him, and then left to return the cruiser to the motor pool and get back to work.  John muddled his way through paperwork, declaring each of his possessions and describing his department-issued equipment.

“Transport’s ready to go, Detective,” an ensign in army fatigues informed him.

John glanced past his shoulder at the small caravan waiting to roll through the main gate.  There was food, water filtration systems, medicine and daily necessities for personal hygiene.  Plus half a dozen deactivated, city-owned DRNs.  A test of sorts.

A test John didn’t dare let fail.

“OK.  All set.”

This time, John didn’t repel over the Wall in a harness that was strapped to his android partner’s, but he was clinging to Dorian metaphorically nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In “One of my Kind” by Heavenly_Bodies here on AO3 at archiveofourown.org/works/3844756, John and Dorian entrust Rudy with something very valuable and I wholeheartedly agree that Rudy would be the perfect person for something like that. Better than a bank vault. (^_~)


	24. Activation

“Don’t bother filling me in until Dorian’s up and running,” John said by way of greeting as he stomped into the former InSyndicate hub and marched past Detective Paul, leaving the man hanging, mouth open mid breath.

John was halfway across the main room before Paul rallied.  Snorted.  “Yeah.  Obviously.  Since the DRN is the brains of your little outfit,” Paul jeered.

“Hey.  Doing you the favor of not having to repeat yourself, Captain Energy.”  John deigned to pause long enough to demand, “There anything I gotta know right this minute?”

“Naw,” Paul replied, backing down with a surprising lack of heckling.  “It can wait.”

Good.  “Dorian where I last saw him?”

“Yeah.”  Paul jerked his chin toward the back room.

With a curt nod of thanks, John tucked the DRN field kit under his arm and shouldered his way past stacks of crates and soldiers cleaning their handguns on whatever flat surface was within reach.

The armory John marched through was significantly depleted and he spared a thought for the action that Paul must have seen (and that Maldonado had not deigned to share with John) and how bone weary the man must be, but the flimsy backdoor was just ahead and John would send him a sympathy card later.  Anonymously.  

All but one of the bunks had been taken out and the walls had been lined with MX chargers.  Thankfully, they were empty, and John could focus on the unmoving figure lying upon a thin mattress along the far wall.  Covered in a sheet like a corpse.

John yanked it back, revealing Dorian’s empty expression and pitch-black eyes.  He forced himself not to look away too quickly.

“Time to wake you up, pal,” John murmured as he popped open the kit and removed the activation wand.  Checked the charge.  Then took a moment to check himself -- brace his hopes against disappointment because Dorian might be damaged like Rudy had warned or might not come back online at all.  But the only way to know for sure was to get on with it.  Right.  So.  Just like Rudy had once instructed him, John touched the charged electrode against Dorian’s left ear.

A zap and a shuddering breath.  Light flickered in Dorian’s eyes until they were brilliant blue and the sound of the DRN’s rusty voice was the most incredible thing John had ever heard:

“John?  What happened?  How long was I out?”

Oh, God.  John’s mind just stopped right there.  Stopped.  Revolved.  Stalled.  Blanked.

Dorian sat up and reached for John’s arm.  “John?”

He sounded worried.  Not because of John’s silence -- well, not completely.  More likely because of the look on John’s face, which John could only imagine (and pointedly refused to) as he fought against an onslaught of furious emotion, eyes steaming with sudden heat and either the room was shaking or John was.

“John, what’s wrong?”

What was wrong?  What was--oh, nothing much.  Only that he’d been inches away from losing Dorian forever.  Only stoically facing one day after another not knowing much of anything at all except that Paul had been in a position to send his typical no-frills, empty-as-shitcan updates twice a day.  Fear.  John had been drowning in so much fucking fear.  Not like the raid at all but in agonizingly slow motion.  Moment by moment.  Breath by breath.

“John, breathe, man.  It’s OK.  Just breathe with me.”

Yeah.  Yeah, OK.  John could do that.  And, rather than face his own panic on top of Dorian’s questions, John hitched himself forward and it was all John could do to stop himself from taking a page from Philip’s book and glomping his DRN.

But then, moot point -- Dorian took the initiative and wrapped his arms around John, foisting himself on John like a traumatized survivor, removing the dilemma of whether to reach out or not from John’s overburdened shoulders.  Teaching him how to lean.  Showing John completely and viscerally that it was OK to want comfort.  To accept it.  Maybe even deserve it.  A little.

With his face pressed against Dorian’s neck and shoulder, John held on and just tried to breathe in time with the completely unnecessary rise and fall of the android’s chest.  John didn’t want to think about why Dorian might be breathing for him, so he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  Frowned hard because Dorian didn’t smell like John’s favorite soap or usual laundry detergent.  He smelled dusty and foreign and John figured he’d better get used to it.  The familiar comforts of regular showers and freshly laundered clothes would be distant priorities for a good long while.

“John, you’re scaring me, man.  What’s going on?  What’s happened?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but snapped it shut as he felt a sob swell dangerously close to bursting out of his throat.  Leaning back just enough to reach his jacket pocket, John dug out the data stick that Rudy had given him.

“Here,” John croaked, scrubbing at his own emotion-skewed expression.  “This is some of it.”  He’d need a moment before he could make an attempt at explaining the rest.

Dorian palmed the stick and pressed the pad of his index finger against the access port.  There were no processing lights on Dorian’s cheek.  Of course not.  Rudy had shut all that off before their mission.  But John’s lips ghosted over the expanse of skin, heart aching at the loss.  The loss of stupid processor lights.  Of all the things to push tears out of his stinging eyes.

Long before John was ready to talk, Dorian stiffened and twisted away, angling himself to face his partner.  “John.  What did you do?”

“What I had to,” he answered almost angrily.  His mouth felt slimy and sticky and what a wonderful reunion this was.  The movies had gotten it all wrong.  No surprise there.

“You placed an activist -- the focus of a divided city -- under arrest in a public place, in the presence of a child and witnesses recording video…”  Dorian shook his head, at an utter loss for words.

“They were going to decommission you, D.  Maybe worse.”

“It’s bound to happen someday, John--”

Hissing through bared teeth, John caged Dorian’s face between his trembling hands, grip tight, too tight, but Dorian wasn’t human and John didn’t try to hold back.  He snarled, “Over my dead body.”

Dorian blinked and then looked disappointed.  Of all things.  There really was no fucking winning with androids.  “You’d make me outlive you, John?  You would be that selfish?”

“That and more.”  And he wasn’t going to apologize for it, either.

“Does that mean that you knew what Detective Paul was going to do?  The EMP spike was part of some plan to--”

“No!  No, I had no idea.  D, how could I?  I didn’t even know about the riots until--”  John paused, swallowed, and chuckled darkly, “Until I somehow stopped myself from killing Paul long enough for him to tell me.”

“That’s something,” Dorian allowed, relaxing out of his outraged posture just a bit.  Just enough for John to feel pathetically grateful.  “And a scan of the premises indicates that Detective Paul is still alive--how many days later?”

“Five days, eight hours.”  John would have to look away and consult his watch for the minutes.

“Five days, eight hours,” Dorian repeated, and then a familiar smirk tugged at his mouth.  “You humans are prone to approximations.  Yet you just gave a surprisingly accurate answer, man.”

And how embarrassing it would be to admit that John had been that close to turning into an emotionless robot.  The pain and uncertainty and pure misery had been that bad.

“John?”

Shaking his head, John tugged at Dorian’s arm.  “Just--just c’mere.”

John twisted around until he was slouched back against the wall, the mattress bowed alarmingly beneath their combined weight as, miraculously, Dorian followed him without a single objection.  Tucked himself into John’s embrace, and let John just clutch tight and nuzzle whatever part of Dorian’s scalp and face he could reach.

 _ ** **You missed me,****  _Dorian didn’t say.

 _ ** **You need me,****  _he didn’t accuse.

But he could have.  John wouldn’t have minded.  Much.  Because both statements were undeniably true.

“I wish I’d been there, John.”

“I don’t.”

Dorian pulled away, hurt flashing in his eyes.

“No, don’t--”  John tightened his hold.  He told his fingers to let go.  They refused.  “D, you know what I did.  You saw the look on 494’s face.  Rudy included that video, right?”

“Yes.  You broke his heart.”

“Yeah.  I did.  It was the only thing I could think of -- the only way I could show the world that you have one.”

Dorian froze.  Shocked solid and stiff.

John petted his back with one hand and traced the curve of a cheek with the thumb of his other.  “I’m just glad it wasn’t you I had to do that to.”  Not because John doubted he could have done it, but because it would have broken him -- him and Dorian -- in a way that John wouldn’t have been able to live with.

Dorian was speechless, but forgiving.  He pressed close and slid the tip of his nose along John’s.  Only a tiny sound squeaked past his control as John wrestled with a shout or groan or wail of relief.

“What happens now?” Dorian wondered.  “Is Maldonado expecting us?”

 _ ** **Can we go home?****  _he didn’t say.  Didn’t have to say.

“No.  We’re reassigned.  Here.”

Dorian stiffened.  “You could have quit.  Kept your home, your life…”

But John would’ve had to give up Dorian and there wasn’t enough Nope in the universe to rival his response to that option.  It wasn’t an option at all.

“I volunteered for this,” he admitted because Dorian should know that John had made this choice willingly.

“All of that,” Dorian mused quietly.  “You gave up all of that for me?”

“Oh, come on.  You said it yourself, D.  Selfish, remember?  I did it for me.”

“But… the lake?  Delta Division?  Bourbon and doughnuts and noodles…?”

John tried to shrug it off.  “Turns out I don’t really need any of that stuff.”

Dorian bit his lip.  “John…”

That look.  Jesus, Dorian could not look at him like that.  Like John had somehow done him a favor.  This place, here, in the middle of a God forsaken Hellhole on the dark side of the Wall was even less of a prize than John himself was.  What had he been thinking -- imagining that Dorian’s existence here would be worthwhile?  Well, it was a little too late for regrets now.

Still, something resembling an apology might be in order.  John cleared his throat. “You and me, we work here now, but someday I’ll take you home,” he rashly vowed.  “But I just--we’re in this together.  You and me.”  For better or worse.

Dorian reached for John’s scruffy jaw and leaned in for a lingering, chaste kiss.  “I never would have asked you for this, but thank you.”

“Jesus.  Don’t--don’t thank me.”  Seriously, how could Dorian thank John for being so broken and stubborn as to be incapable of even trying to live in a world without Dorian?  Of all the stupid things to feel gratitude for.  “Don’t thank me.  Just--just be here.  Just be here, D.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment.  Very long.  John’s lungs started burning because hell yes he was holding his breath waiting for it.

“You love me.”

_****I know.  Do you?** ** _

The words almost made it past John’s lips.  He felt his face flush.  Sure, why not heap another serving of mortification onto this scene?  Why the hell not just go for broke and beg while he was at it.

No.  No, he still had some pride left.  Somewhere.  Dregs, maybe.

He rasped, “I--what?”

“You love me.”  Dorian sounded even more confident the second time around and that couldn’t be right.

“D, wait--just--”

“It’s OK, John.”  Dorian beamed warmth and promise and had anyone ever looked at John like this?  Like all of his jagged edges and missing pieces were visible and yet there wasn’t a single thing that he ought to change about himself.  “I love you, too.”

That smirk.  That damn smirk that wasn’t cute.  At all.  Absolutely not.

“Oh, c’mon, man.  Like I’m not the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” Dorian needled and--Jesus.  Just how did he do that?  How did Dorian manage to come out with the perfect thing to say?

Because Dorian was all truth.  That was how.  And John could only marvel as the tension holding him together snapped and shredded, fell away in an instant.

With a huff of rueful laughter, John pulled at Dorian’s elbows until the DRN was curled up beside him again, John’s nose tucked down beside Dorian’s left ear as John giggled-sighed-groaned with happiness.  Not unlike the God-awful screeching he’d let loose last October when the bomb clamped around his neck hadn’t exploded in the middle of that park next to the Seymore Building.

Now it was Dorian’s turn to rub John’s arms soothingly until he figured out how to act like a grown man again.

“Just tell me one thing, man.”

“Yeah?  What?”

“Are we killing Detective Paul for that stunt with the EMP spike or thanking him?”

John pouted in thought.  Shrugged.  “Flip a coin?”

When Dorian giggled, John felt a genuine smile blossom.  It started deep within his chest an poured up and out, curving his lips and squeezing his eyes shut and this.  This was what he was here for.

Peace and joy and Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line “Over my dead body” is inspired by “Arms” by searchthemindpalace on AO3 here at archiveofourown.org/works/1180087.


	25. Meet the Team

They didn’t kill Paul.  But John drew the line at thanking him.  Sure, maybe he’d saved them some pain and anguish.  Maybe he’d saved John from trying to convince Dorian to disobey a direct order and stay behind while John raced against the clock.  Maybe he’d saved Dorian from not just being shut off and shelved, but stripped for parts and sold.  Maybe.

John was satisfied with maybe.  Paul would have to be, too, because that asshole’s ego was big enough already.

“That’s the deal,” Paul said, concluding his stiffly delivered update and imminent action plan.

John nodded.  “OK.”

Before he could tap Dorian on the shoulder and suggest giving their new comrades a proper welcome, Paul nodded at the DRN and asked, “You keeping up all right?”

Dorian didn’t take offense and neither did John because this was as close to an apology as Paul was ever likely to get.  Especially when he saw himself as the hero.

“Yeah, man,” Dorian replied.  “I’m good.”

But he wasn’t smiling or eager to hug it out, so John added, “Give us a head’s up next time or something painful might happen to yours.”

Paul scoffed.  “Come on.  Like Atom Boy here would have stayed put.  Orders are orders.”

And admitting anything to the contrary was not terribly smart.  Or particularly good for Dorian’s long-term prospects.  “And androids are androids.  Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”  John sweetly asked, “They kicked you out of vice because you were making the rest of them look bad, huh?”

“Can’t look much worse than you.”

“Hey.  You can look all you want,” John invited with arms widespread, “but you still can’t touch.”

“Ugh.  Keep a lid on it, Kennex.  I’m due for four hours of rack time and I’m taking it.”

John didn’t bother to smirk as Paul stomped away.  He scanned the main room until his gaze landed on the six DRN crates that had been brought in with John’s duffel, spare leg, and charger.

“John,” Dorian nudged quietly.  “You could do with some rest, too, man.”

“I’m fine.  Let’s wake everybody up.”

“We don’t have time to run the diagnostic program before tonight’s op.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got five teams going out there and there’s only one of you.”  John moved toward the nearest crate and started unsnapping the clamps holding the lid shut.  Well, that was his intention; he was already straining hard just to budge the first one.  “Gonna need someone,” he gritted out, “to back up the MXs.”

John grunted as the latch finally popped open.  Dorian reached around John’s bulk and unclipped the next with ease.

“Show off,” John mumbled.

Dorian warned, “These DRNs could be a liability.”

“What?  No.  Rudy wouldn’t have approved them for transport if he weren’t sure.”

But Dorian’s silence was doubtful.

“Hey, you’re the only one here who hasn’t seen the inside of a lab since your last shutdown--”

“Which means I should stay behind until we can be sure that I’m not malfunctioning.”

“No, look.  This is what we’re gonna do -- we’re going to bring our team up to speed, hook you up to the diagnostic deal, and then we’ll all be up to spec.  OK?”

“Only if you get a few hours, too.”

“Yeah, OK.  Fine.”  John rolled his eyes.  “Mom.”

Dorian gave him a knowing smile.  One by one, they unpacked the DRNs.  And when Dorian held out the activation rod for John to take, John didn’t refuse it.  Honestly, he wasn’t all that excited at the prospect of being That Person for more androids, but he was even less sure about Dorian stepping up.  The last time Dorian had been in that position, he’d made an executive decision to allow DRN-494 to keep a single, significant memory.  A memory so significant that it might just have led to an android network forming, an android going missing, and ensuing social upheaval.  A new world that was still forming around them.  Change and risk and sacrifice.

John wasn’t sure he could, in good conscience, encourage Dorian to put himself in the position of being ultimately responsible for the well-being of other souls.  Synthetic or otherwise.

So John’s face was the first one these DRNs saw.  “Morning,” John said as just-brightened eyes blinked.  “You tracking OK?”

The DRN scanned his immediate surroundings before regarding John and Dorian with curiosity.  He extended his right hand in greeting.  “I’m--”

“Just hold tight a moment,” John interrupted before introductions could get going.  Once all six DRNs were standing under their own power, frowning worriedly at their lack of access to any sort of database, and eyeing John with apprehension, he figured now was as good a time as any for Wall 101.

Just… how weird was it to see six identical androids fidgeting in a herd.  Or would that be a flock?  A school?  A circuit of androids?  Whatever.  Eventually, John would be able to tell them apart like he could spot Dorian with a glance.  In the meantime…

“OK, I’m Detective John Kennex and you’ve been assigned to my team.  At the moment, you’re about ten meters underground in old subway tunnels on the other side of the Wall.  Everybody have some data on that?”  He glanced at Dorian for assistance.

“I’ll transmit our GPS coordinates,” Dorian volunteered.

“OK.  Good.”  John gestured for him to go ahead and he could see from their increased confidence that they were all on the same page.  Or nearer getting there.  “You’re here to assist with military maneuvers.  Who here recalls tactical experience?”

None of the new guys raised their hands.

“Right.”  John shared a look with a somber Dorian, who did have recent tactical experience.  For better or worse.  “That’s about what we expected, so you’ll be playing a supporting role in the next op.  Let’s introduce everyone to the computer system and mission goals.”  John started to turn but then put out a hand, halting himself.  “Before we get to that,” he made himself say, “you can call me Kennex.  This is Dorian.  And you are?”

With a lift of his chin, the closest DRN said, “DRN-806--”

John stopped him with a gesture.  “Your name?”

“Oh,” the android said, blinked.  “Bob.”

“Bob.  Great.”  There was a Goku (559), Pierre (913), Sven (762), MacKenzie (0230), and a James (1007).  John would ask how they’d come up with their monikers later.  For now, he had six guys to bring up to speed and a partner to take care of.

Once John had instructed the on-duty MX to stand down and let the DRNs sync up with the computer and update their files, John angled Dorian back to the MX dorm.  Several charging units were in use as MXs topped off their charge in preparation for the upcoming mission.  Paul’s team had clocked five caches of stock-piled supplies.  Five likely gang hubs.  T-minus six hours, John would be introducing himself to the neighbors.  Yipee.

Scooping up the DRN service kit, John nodded for Dorian to follow him in search of a quiet corner and the illusion of privacy.  John found a place tucked away from the bustle in the main hub thoroughfare and claimed a cot.  He didn’t even have to pat the mattress for Dorian to perch beside him.

When Dorian focused on the kit in John’s hands but didn’t reach for it, John felt compelled to point out, “This isn’t going to help you deal with what went down while you were operating under military protocol.”

“I know.”  He continued glaring at the kit.

John added, “And you might not even need this diagnostic.  Unless you’ve noticed lags or hiccups that I missed?”

Dorian shook his head.  “So far, so good.”

John pursed his lips.  “You wanna run the program anyway.”

“I don’t know when I’ll see Rudy again, and this is the closest I can get to telling him goodbye.”

“It’s not goodbye forever, D.  Why not save this for a really shit-tastic day?”

Dorian looked up and John knew that flat gaze.  Knew he was about to get blasted Dorian-style.  “A day for me consists of activity between chargings.  By that definition, my day has consisted of crying on your shoulder over the kids I couldn’t save, being forcefully shutdown by someone I considered an ally, waking to an emotional partner--”

“Hey, I wasn’t that emotional!”

“--and learning that what I’d thought was an altruistic gesture has snowballed into a crisis that may lead to the end of my kind.  So, tell me, John, does that qualify as ‘shit-tastic’?  I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

Humbled, John muttered, “I did come back.  And you did wake up.  And you got a hug out of it.”

Dorian tilted his head.

“But yeah.  You’ve had a pretty shit-tatstic day.  And you miss Rudy.  I get it.  So.”  John passed the kit over.  “Knock yourself out.”

Dorian chuckled down at the case now resting in his lap.  “Your puns, man--”

“Are awesome,” John finished, flicking the lobe of Dorian’s ear and then leaning down to loosen up his boot laces.  When he straightened up from squeezing his feet free from their confines, Dorian was ready to be hooked up.  He sat with his back against the wall and tapped John’s knees, urging him to swing both legs over the DRN’s lap.  As if close proximity would give them both a better rest.

_****Are you even going to know the difference?****  _John didn’t check because yes, Dorian would know the difference.  The same way John would.  He’d _****know.****_

With a bemused grin, John snapped the cable end into the port at the back of Dorian’s skull and, as the android’s eyes closed, John lay back, stretching out on the thin mattress, knees propped up across Dorian’s thighs, and tugging the pancake-flat pillow beneath his head.  This place wasn’t John’s apartment and this sorry excuse for a mattress wasn’t his smartbed, but he slept better than ever.  And no, John didn’t have to ask himself why.


	26. A Start

They deployed on schedule.  The raids went according to plan.  Four teams met with resistance at their respective locations.  At one of them, an EMP was used that took out the MXs.  Sven rushed in to reactivate them and saved the entire team in the process.  Luckily, the lone bullet that Sven caught was a ricochet that caused a mere “flesh wound” in his gut.  Dorian was able to patch him up after the fact as John digested the reports from the other team leaders.

John and Dorian’s team had uncovered what appeared to be a legitimate (if improvised) community center and not a gang storehouse.  The guards had backed down rather than try to duke it out with the MXs and, when the shouts had calmed into actual dialog, John had found himself talking to a pair of dads who had apparently volunteered to keep an eye out for gang raids.

“Our kids need this food and medicine,” one man had said.

“Then you’re in luck -- my team is here to help get this stuff to the people who need it the most.”

A local community leader had shown up in the aftermath, and like any other dyed-in-the-wool anarchist, he wasn’t thrilled with government intervention.  Even if that intervention went in his favor.  But he didn’t pull a gun so John didn’t have to shoot him.

Yeah.  This was gonna be a long row to hoe.  No wonder Paul looked so happy to be officially handing the baton off to someone else.

“The vacation begins!” Paul crowed on a shit-eating grin and a swagger.

John returned fire: “Yeah, ours from you.”  It was as close to a farewell as John was sure they’d ever get.  In this dimension, anyway.  If there was an alternate reality where John Kennex and Richard Paul were chummy pals and cheerful drinking buddies then one of mankind’s greatest mysteries would be solved once and for all: yes, Hell did exist.

Taking John’s snappy one-liner with good grace, Paul turned to Dorian.  “You better stick around, bot.  Teach Kennex here some manners.”

“Because you sure as hell haven’t got any,” John had to needle.  Had to.

“Kennex, there isn’t enough money in the world to make me put up with you for twenty-four hours straight in an enclosed space,” Paul singsonged, arms wide to indicate the hub.

Unfortunately, John could only agree.  So it was just as well that Paul’s team was pulling out.  Having to share the same narrow toehold of common ground would get real uncomfortable real fast.

And then the reinforced door was shutting behind him and John was officially the only human on permanent assignment in this dreary, sorry excuse for a civilization.  One detective holding down the fort with a few DRNs as a veritable fleet of military personnel and MXs cycled through on bi-weekly supply caravans and assisted John with raids on gang strongholds.  John was at the center of a war zone and he was the only human who didn’t have a ticket outta here.

Yup, John had gotten precisely what he’d asked for, all right.  Oh, happy day.

“Kennex?”

John turned, steeling himself to address one of the six DRNs he had no hope of ID’ing on sight yet, and stopped.  Blinked at the inquisitive look he was receiving from-- “Dorian.  Jesus, don’t--don’t call me that.”

Dorian’s mouth twitched into a near-smile.  “You asked the other DRNs to call you by your surname.  I assumed that while we’re on duty it would be better if I did, too.”

Hah.  Of course _****now****  _Dorian cared about crossing professional lines.

John shook his head, tilting his helpless smile away and aiming it at an empty corner.  “Yeah.  Well, since when have protocols applied to you, D?”

A hand on John’s chin gently nudged his face around so that Dorian could answer the curve of John’s lips with a mirror image.  “When the other DRNs ask why I’m allowed to call you John, I should--”

“Tell them the truth -- you’re my partner.”

“And that’s why we bunk together?”

John’s brows lifted.  “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there’s not much in the way of private space around here.”  John didn’t need enhanced android sensors to hear the activity just around the corner.  The teams that John had arrived with were settling in, taking inventory, cleaning weapons, shit like that.  When John wasn’t dodging moving bodies, he was rubbing elbows with someone.  Rack time was taken in a communal bunk room.  Even if he and Dorian were lucky enough to ever again have one of those all to themselves, a couple dozen bored soldiers were only a thin wall away.  Privacy like what he and D had enjoyed at John’s place was a distant dream.

Dorian seemed to still.  His hand dropped.  “We won’t be roommates anymore?”

_****Got it in one,****_  John knew he should say.  He knew it.  Any other reply would be torture of the worst kind.  Acknowledging the _****want****  _amid the reality of _****can’t have****  _would kill him by degrees.  But the pain in Dorian’s kicked puppy expression was worse and, hell, what it really came down to was which agony John was equipped to live through.

He smoothed his palm down Dorian’s arm.  “D, there’s a saying: you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

John figured that Dorian had to have the expression stored up because he didn’t even go for the obvious semantic of _****You are aware that I don’t eat****  _and blurted, “I can’t?”

John sighed and dared to cup the android’s cheek with his other hand.  “No, D.  It’s not you -- it’s me.   _ ** **I****  _can’t.  I’m not that… it’s never… damn it, this is--”

Dorian cut him off with a kiss and just that easily John gave in.  It was only a chaste press of lips in a momentarily empty corridor, but when Dorian leaned back, he was smiling.  “You do want this.”

Of all the stupid things to say.  “Of course, I do.”

“Then we will,” Dorian vowed and John had to admire his confidence.

“Yeah, where?  In a broom closet?” John snarked.

Dorian grinned and -- God damn it -- John was already anticipating what his lover was going to improvise.

In the meantime, John had plenty of detainees to growl and snap at.  Yeah, not everyone had gone down in a hail of bullets at the supply caches and John was raring to badger some information out of these goons.  So that was pretty much what John focused on for the next three days.  And when he wasn’t in the middle of an interrogation, he was going over reports from scouting teams.  Or shoveling an offered MRE down his throat before Dorian could lose patience and do something drastic, like sit on John’s lap and spoon-feed him.  John had a vague memory of face-planting onto a sad and sagging cot with Dorian’s voice heckling, “Sixteen hours straight, John.  At this rate, our first time will be our last and only.”

But John was pretty sure he’d hallucinated that threat.

Mostly.

What John definitely didn’t hallucinate was the fact that the next logistics shipment appeared to have nearly doubled in size, but John had other things to worry about, like channeling the focus of a hundred new faces into the constantly shifting action plan, which the commander wanted to be read in on even before they got the tiresome chore of introductions out of the way.

There was no point in targeting the latest locations of supply hoards this time; the people here were delusional, not stupid, and hitting their makeshift storehouses twice a week would only clue them in to the fact that the goods were traceable.

“Still looking to get an accurate picture of the population’s movements,” John told the officer-in-charge.  “We’ve got seven detainees that we’ll be releasing… right after lunch.”  He patted a box of instant mashed potatoes.  Several vials of the liquid Rudy had downed right before his undercover foray had been sent in this shipment, and once consumed (knowingly or otherwise) they’d turn the body into a moving target.  Only this time, they’d be relying on the sensors built into the MXs and DRNs instead of satellites.  “Let’s see how far in they lead us,” John concluded.

A decent distance as it turned out and John found himself face-to-scowling-face with a sizable community of several thousands.  Introductions were made with fewer shots fired than before.

It was encouraging, but neither John nor Dorian let down their guard.

“I’m not here to make life difficult for groups that want to improve the well-being of the people who depend on them,” John told a visibly skeptical woman.  She appeared to be the one in charge of this particular cluster of outcasts and John was just happy that Dorian was recording all of this -- more faces, voices, and routes to add to their database.  “What I’m not good with is letting organizations like InSyndicate dangle the possibility of clean water, food, and medicine that you and yours have to jump through hoops for.  It’s not right for them to take advantage of someone in a position of need, and it’s gonna stop.”

She didn’t believe him, but John hadn’t really expected her to.  Only time would show that he wasn’t blowing hot air to distract from a sinister agenda.

“That’s good work, John,” Dorian commented quietly as they began the trek back to the hub.

John remembered when he’d said much the same thing to Dorian just after he’d learned that his android partner was spending his downtime running searches for DNA matches on cold cases.  He thumped Dorian’s shoulder and pushed a smile past his exhaustion.

“Eh, it’s a start.”


	27. Bunks

“What’s all this?” John demanded, blinking at a stack of building materials, his second cup of pre-lunch instant coffee in hand amid the subdued drone of men and women enjoying a little downtime.

He hadn’t imagined the near-double size of the shipment that had arrived the day before: here was the proof.

Dorian glanced at the indicated parcel.  Still shrink-wrapped for transport.  “Drywall.  Mostly,” Dorian answered and John rolled his eyes.

“Yeah.  I can see that.  What are we dry-walling?”  And exactly when did Dorian think John would have the time for this?

 _ ** **“You****_  are not dry-walling anything.”  In response to John’s expectant look, Dorian reluctantly elaborated: “The DRNs need their own space, John.  This is important.  Especially since it looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

Yeah, that last part was true enough.  John had yet to locate a better site for a base of operations in these tunnels.  Still-- “No way they let you requisition building supplies just for--damn it,” John cursed as the truth hit him.  “You got me to sign for all of this, didn’t you?”

Dorian didn’t even bother to hide the smirk.

“Great.  Fantastic.”

“It will be.  You’ll see.”

“Oh, yeah?” John challenged.

Dorian’s smirk widened.  “You’ll thank me.”

John thought of the olive oil and bit back a sigh.  “Uh-huh.  We’ll just see about that,” he grumbled because John had never gotten around to thanking Dorian for the tip about using olive oil on squeaky synthetic joints now, had he?

But John didn’t order him not to waste time and energy on following through with his little home improvement project.  If they had the space, then what would it hurt to give the DRNs someplace to go to get out of John’s hair.  Give John a break from the constant low-level headache that he got from trying to tell the eager-to-be-helpful Bob and Goku apart.  Or James and Pierre, who both tended to brood.  MacKenzie and Sven were a snap as the one always looked like he was on the verge of busting a move to whatever tune was playing in his head and Sven had developed a habit of tugging at the front of his jacket, a self conscious gesture… like checking to make sure his fly wasn’t hanging open.

And if that ever happened…wow.  What a learning experience that would be for the soldiers temporarily stationed here.  No doubt the DRNs would become a lot more popular.

Which made John pause and ask Dorian very quietly, “Hey.  Any of our team having trouble with anyone?”  Dorian would know before John.  Probably.

“Not that they’ve told me.”

“They know that they can, right?”

“Of course.  But they’re not any more helpless than I was,” Dorian argued and John zeroed in on the tense.

“Was.  Like on our first day as partners.”

“Yes.”

“So they’ve got free will--”  To whatever extent it didn’t interfere with their official duties.  “--but haven’t got what you do -- access to organic memories.”

Dorian nodded, glancing away as his throat worked.

John put a hand on his partner’s shoulder.  He could only imagine how isolated Dorian must feel sometimes -- so alike his counterparts at first glance but having physical sensation in common with humans who could probably understand his feelings… if Dorian’s life didn’t depend on keeping the origin of those sensations and their very existence a secret.  There wasn’t really anyone Dorian could let his guard down around here except John… who was starting to feel like he was part ostrich what with how many hours he spent with his face buried in one report or another.  “You OK?” he checked.

Dorian shifted from one foot to the other.  “Whether I am or not, this is hardly the place or time.”

“Then we’ll make one.”

With a nod and shoulders that already looked a little less tense, Dorian agreed, “Later.”

“Look.  If it gets to be too much, tell me.”

Dorian confirmed, “Your DRN partner should publicly inform you that you need to give him five minutes of your time?”

As if anything concerning Dorian could be dealt with in a piddly five minutes.  “OK, give me a weather update.  It’ll be our code for…”  John circled a hand through the air.

“For a hug?” Dorian teased and John didn’t believe for one moment that the majority of these little get-togethers would be for the purpose of giving Dorian a fix for hug-withdrawal.  John was pretty sure he’d get yelled at more often than not.  All the more reason for them to step away from witnesses.

“For whatever,” John answered.  “I know this assignment isn’t easy and probably won’t be getting any easier, so…”  He patted Dorian’s arm and dared to take a sip of cooling coffee.

Dorian sighed wistfully.  “Sometimes I wish I could tell the others why you mean so much to me.”

John didn’t choke, but it was a near thing.  Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why don’t you?”  When Dorian’s brows shot upward, John gestured for him to wait and then elaborated, “That wasn’t a suggestion for you to shout it from the rooftops.  I’m just curious what your reasoning is for not saying anything.”

“I have a lot of reasons, John.  As many or even more than you do.  But I don’t think I should list them here.”

Here.  Yeah.  They were standing just off to the side in the main room and within spitting distance of the cafeteria which was, without a doubt, the most popular spot in the hub.

“Yeah, OK.”

“But now that I know that you’d like to know…”

John grimaced.  “Just.  Never mind.”

But Dorian wouldn’t never mind.  That was what made Dorian _****Dorian.****_

John had to clench his jaw against a grin.  The last thing he needed was anyone speculating on what might have put their cantankerous host in a good mood.

“You sound different,” Sandra observed two days later, at the end of John’s scheduled check-in and daily report.  “What’s going on?”

John was glad his boss couldn’t see him roll his eyes.  “Aside from the whole lotta nothing I just gave you?”

“Hm.  You’re allowed some downtime.”

“Downtime?” John queried, the epitome of innocence.  “What’s that?”

“Get off the radio, John.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.  Give Dorian my regards.”

John peeled his headset off and tossed it onto the console.  He leaned back as far as he could in the decrepit chair, stretching his arms over his head--

And startling when his hands smacked into a solid body directly behind him.

Familiar fingers curled around his forearms before John could twitch his ass out of his seat and onto the grungy concrete floor.

“John,” Dorian reassured him.

“The hell, man.  You could’ve said hello to the captain just now.”  John tilted his head toward the comms station.

“Maybe next time.”

“Uh-huh.”  So John was skeptical of the DRN’s motives.  That made John smart, not paranoid.  Well, not overly paranoid.

“Given her suggestion that you enjoy a little downtime, I think you might be interested in the local weather report.”

John smirked.  “Is that so.”

“Uh-hmm.  C’mon, man.”

Indulging the android, John pushed himself to his feet.  “I’m all yours.”

Dorian liked that.  Oh, yeah.  From the wide, delighted smile stretching his lips, Dorian liked that a lot.

Thrilled with a job well done -- coaxing a show of happiness from Dorian never failed to leave John with a sense of accomplishment -- John scuffed his way along at Dorian’s side, following his lead.  Down the hall and around the corner to where John had been hearing an awful lot of construction work going on sporadically over the last forty-eight hours.

“This used to be one of those armory-slash-dorms,” John realized, taking in the new arrangement of walls.  Now it resembled a college flat with tiny, private rooms clustered around a miniaturized common living space.  There was no furniture.  No rugs.  No milk crates, even.  Four blank, basic walls, but who cared so long as the team was simpatico.

With an impressed moue, John gave a nod of approval.  “Looks good.  Rooms are a little cozy,” he said, doing the math and not coming up with much square footage behind each door.

“They’re big enough for a charger.  We don’t need much, John.  Just someplace to call our own.”

John shifted, bumping his elbow against Dorian’s.  “Six,” he observed, counting up the doors.  “You’re not staying here, huh?”

“Nope.”

“So, you gonna show me your room?” John wheedled.

“Well, since you asked…”

Dorian herded John out the door and back down the hall, past the comms room and, in a space tucked behind the main MX dorm, Dorian pushed open the door to one of the smallest rooms John had ever seen.  It was more like a breezeway than an actual room.  There was barely enough space for the DRN charger and separate door.

But the second door did open -- opened just fine -- revealing a gorgeous sight: a double-sized camping bed.  John’s spare leg sat on a charger against the far wall.

“Awfully nice of you to give my leg charging priority.”  John nudged the door closed and leaned a shoulder against the unpainted wall.  “Don’t suppose I can talk you into letting me borrow your bunk here every once in a while?”  He nodded toward the bonafide bed that Dorian would never need.  Not for sleeping, anyway.

“You can try,” Dorian invited and John accepted.  He moved in, tucked himself up against Dorian’s form and ghosted butterfly kisses over the android’s smooth jaw.  God, John had missed this.  The closeness.  The sense that it was OK to be close to someone else, someone who knew him.  His lover.

If Dorian had been a cat, he would have purred.  As it was, John had to muffle a chuckle against Dorian’s neck when the DRN rubbed his cheek on John’s jaw and ear.

“Miss me?” John rumbled, tracing the shell of Dorian’s perfect ear with the tip of his nose.

Dorian’s arms curved around John’s waist and John was already running his palms up and across strong shoulders.  “Hmm, John.”

“Hey,” he replied, hunching his shoulders and brushing his lips over Dorian’s.  “What kind of issue is volume?  Infrared?  The MXs are right on the other side of this wall?”  John reached out and drummed his fingertips on the surface in question.

“Not anymore.”  Dorian beamed.  “Crates of spare weapons are stacked there now.”

“Ordinance and ammo?”

“I wouldn’t put explosives that close to where you sleep.  Those are stored up against the tunnel wall.  The MX chargers are now along the interior wall, beside the common area.”

John grinned, impressed and very much appreciating Dorian’s ingenuity and thoughtfulness.  “Sounds like it’ll be a challenge to distinguish heat signatures.”

“Or be bothered by your snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Tell it to someone who doesn’t have recordings.”

John harrumphed because he was supposed to, but he was a little more interested in enjoying the gift Dorian was giving them.  Basically, the only way anyone was going to figure out just how close John and Dorian were was if they were hanging out in Dorian’s charger causeway.

Speaking of which, with this layout, it was clear that no one was getting to John without first getting past Dorian.

Privacy and security.  Dorian really did know the way to John’s heart.

“Thank you,” John said, sincerely.

“You’re welcome.”

And now it was Dorian’s turn.  Long overdue.  “What can I do for you, D?”

“If you have to ask…”

“You trust me to guess?”

“Yes, John.  I trust you.”

John tightened his arms around Dorian and just held on.  Held tight.  Rocked them both back and forth a bit until they were almost slow dancing.  Dorian hummed happily, soaking up the affection and attention that had been put on hold for longer than either of them had expected.

John would’ve been happy to indulge his DRN for half the night like this, but his back and hips refused.  Adamantly.  When the muscles in John’s lower back started twitching and his leg gave a sharp twinge of complaint, Dorian shuffled them closer to the bed and hell yes John could take a hint.

He sank down onto the mattress and--sweet Jesus.  This wasn’t one of those wobbly inflatable deals; it was memory foam that conformed instantly to his aching body.

Rolling flat onto his back with a long, low groan, John gasped, “D, I love you.”

It belatedly occurred to him that he probably should have said those words in a more romantic setting.  At least for the all-important and ever-memorable First Time.

But one glance at Dorian’s proud and indulgent grin clued John in to the fact that Dorian would clearly remember every time John said those three little words.

“Yeah, man.  I know.”

Smug asshole.

“You know,” John blustered, experimenting with how far he could stretch his limbs spread-eagle before he triggered a cramp.  His back popped once, twice, and damn that felt awesome.  “Know-it-all android,” he grouched, and then grumbled a bit more when Dorian crouched over him, snuggled down, peppered and pestered him with kisses.  “Knock it off and lemme sleep already,” John muttered against eager lips.

Dorian didn’t mention the way John’s palm curved around the back of the android’s skull, urging him closer, or the hand rucking up the DRN’s standard issue shirt to trace lines of synthetic musculature.

Pressing his hips flush against John’s left thigh, Dorian murmured, “You can sleep, John, just as soon as you man up and get down to business.”

Man up.  The hell.  If Dorian hadn’t been nearly double John’s weight, the android would have found himself flat on his back and at John’s mercy.  In lieu of a good, exuberant wrestling match, John retaliated by wrapping his legs around Dorian’s hips and rocking them both in close, closer, as close as they could get with their trousers still on.

God, the weight, the warmth, the friction.  Just this.  Just to be and breathe and feel and so good.  Dealing with fastenings and sleeves required too much effort -- they shoved fabric aside until bunched cloth joined the symphony of skin and Dorian came with a soft whimper -- John’s name breathed into his ear on a hot breath and it was the heat and need that kicked off the telltale tingle at the base of John’s spine.

Dorian’s unfaltering touch.  A perfectly irresistible rhythm had John releasing into warm hands and he was gasping, heart pounding, hands caressing, speaking with touch because John was past the point of exhaustion or words or even wiggling out of his boots.

He closed his eyes, contented and tangled.  Thankful.

And some time later, he opened them on a deep breath, snugging himself against the form at his back.  Dorian and smooth sheets.  Warm blankets and cushioning mattress.  The familiar absence of his right leg.  Tank top and boxer shorts and home.

Instead of confronting his partner over dressing him for bed and tucking him in like he was some kind of sleeping toddler, John rolled into Dorian’s solid presence, nuzzling synthetic skin and fuck it.  He’d nip that high-handed behavior in the bud later.

John was home.


	28. Still In Play

“No.  No, no.  Not you.  Dude.  You’re like a bad penny,” John griped, putting out a hand to halt the arrival of the team members he’d been told to expect.

Three more deactivated DRNs had been packed in with the supply convoy this time and standing at the forefront, bold as brass and very much online, was a fourth: everyone’s favorite android, DRN-494.

He grinned.  “It’s good to see you, too, Detective Kentaro.”

“Kennex,” Dorian firmly corrected from John’s side.

“Remember it or you’ll find yourself permanently assigned to janitorial duty,” John threatened.

Forney managed to tune his smile down to a bashful curve, but John wasn’t placated.  Not in the slightest.  He irritably activated the other three DRNs and spat out the orientation spiel with arms crossed over his chest.

“John, what is it?” Dorian prodded once the new guys (Forney, Mark, Dominic, and Jackie) had been paired up with a more experienced DRN partner and assignments had been given out.  “This isn’t just you being annoyed, man.”

No, it wasn’t.  This was John being paranoid.  Because he could not think of a single good reason for 494 to be here.  “I need to talk to Sandra.”

Dorian didn’t say a word, but John knew that look.  The same one Dorian had given him when John had told Dorian he wanted to look over his father’s case file alone.  When he’d sent Dorian off to consult with Rudy on the Strawman’s latest victim.  When he’d shut Dorian out because even after months as partners, there were things John couldn’t share with the one person who would, without a doubt, give his life to save John’s.

But John wasn’t going to let this be that moment all over again, so he said, “You wanna be there?  When I make the call?”

Dorian’s expression brightened with cautious hope and God damn it still so fucking unfair.  “To listen in?”

“And throw in your two cents.”

What a smile.  John didn’t deserve this kind of reaction for trying to include Dorian in on a conversation that concerned all DRNs, him included.  Absolutely not.  But it’d be a waste if he didn’t appreciate it.  So he did.  Dorian could call him out on it later.

John checked his watch.  There was no point trying to get a hold of Captain Maldonado now.  She was probably either in a meeting or wrangling her detectives.  He’d have to wait for their regularly scheduled communications window.  Six agonizingly long hours later, it opened up.

“Just got your care package today,” John informed her.  “Is there any particular reason why the circus is in town?”

“Dorian should be able to fill you in.”

“Oh, really?”  John looked at Dorian, who looked at him.

“You told me not to exchange data with 494,” he reminded him, not the least cowed by John’s suspicious glare.

Jaw clenched with frustration, John shook his head.  There really was no winning with androids.

“Ah,” Maldonado said in a tone that explained a lot, but John was too impatient to wait for details.

He snapped, “So what happened in court?”

“DRN-494 was granted provisional rights until the case can be reviewed at the state level.”  Which could take months.  “In the meantime, we reached a compromise.”

Some compromise.  “Pardon my lack of enthusiasm.”

Sandra chided, “This isn’t about the grand jury.  DRN-494 would not have had access to your testimony.”  A valid point.  Still…

John blew out a breath and declined to comment.  “So I’m stuck with Mister Celebrity.  Great.  Thanks.”

“He’s been assigned to your unit for the time being.  Use it to your advantage,” she recommended.  “You know I trust you.”

John’s brows twitched as the words struck a familiar, gut-twisting chord: _****“You’re the only guy I trust here.”****  _ He mused, “I’m still your number one?”

“Absolutely.  We can’t do this without you.”

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

“Copy that.”  John gave his standard report and signed off, but once the mic had been muted and transmitter switched to standby, he didn’t push himself up out of his chair.  Instead, he waited.  Waited and stewed.

“John, what the hell is going on?”

Yeah, Dorian had every right to be upset.  Frustrated and angry -- that was how John would have felt listening to Dorian and Rudy talking in code right in front of him.

“Well, turns out this--”  John flung his arms wide to indicate the gloomy, subterranean tunnel system.  “--is the safest place for our friend Forney, who just happens to be the poster boy for android rights.”

Maldonado had sent him here.  Of all places.  Because shutting him off wouldn’t just set off a backlash on the nuclear scale.  More like mega-ton.  But letting the DRN run around the city or, hell, even sending him back to his job at Saint Mary’s would make him too accessible to people that were practically choking on their own ambition.

Dorian processed those implications and probably a lot more before concluding, “That’s not particularly encouraging.”

“Not, it’s not.  The captain’s got something in play, though.  She needs us here for whatever it is.”

Dorian nodded slowly and asked with reluctance, “Do you still trust her?”

“Yes.”  As unsatisfying as it was for so much to still be up in the air and unresolved -- especially after all of the sacrifices John had made -- he did trust Sandra.  He trusted her like he’d trusted his dad.  He trusted her not to get between John and Dorian.  In short, he trusted her a lot.

“There was a grand jury,” Dorian prompted -- it wasn’t a question exactly because Rudy’s updates had probably mentioned it, but it was a question in the sense that they both knew John was one of the few people who had been there for it so he _****could****  _answer questions if Dorian asked.  If he was allowed to ask.

But since when had either John or Dorian cared whether they were allowed to do something?  Better to ask forgiveness and all that.

“Yeah, a grand jury.  To see if DRN-494 was enough of a person to be afforded the right to exist.”

“You testified,” Dorian breathed in either awe or apprehension… or both.  “What did you say?”

Curling forward, John braced his elbows on his knees and informed his shoes, “Dead is dead.  That’s what I said.  In a nutshell.”

A long moment passed.

John breathed through it.

Then, Dorian crouched down in front of him and, gazing up at John with those stupidly pretty and terrifying insightful eyes, said, “You can’t prove that I’m alive -- that I’m a person in the same sense that you are.”

“No one can, D.  No one can prove that anyone else isn’t some kind of hologram, that this isn’t all a dream.  But we don’t live our lives like it doesn’t matter, like we’re about to wake up.”  John dared to cup the DRN’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.  “You matter.  So what if I can’t prove that you’re as much of a person as I am.  You’re still my partner and you still matter.”

Right on cue, Dorian’s mouth mashed tight into that damn over-emotional frown.

“Oh, hell.  Don’t--don’t do that.”

Too late.  Dorian was riding the Feels Train.

_****All aboard!** ** _

Luminous eyes stared back at him and John shook his head in mock exasperation. “See?  This is why I don’t do sappy.  Just lookit you -- you’re a mess, dude.”

“A mess,” Dorian rallied, with a deep, deliberate breath.  “This coming from a man who can’t even feed himself--”

“Hey, I managed just fine for--”

“--a man who obliterates MXs _****because****  _they’re operating within normal parameters and even taking the initiative to offer assistance--”

“--years and don’t tell me you don’t fantasize about a few of those walking calculators getting lost and wandering around the shooting range and--”

“--a man who takes pride in making children scream in terror and vomit on their shoes!”

“--you’re just jealous I get to have all the fun,” John summed up.

Dorian’s brows hitched upwards.  “Your people skills are… memorable.”

“Yeah.  That’s why you love me.”

Daringly, Dorian leaning in and placed a sound kiss upon John’s bemused smile.  “That’s one reason.”

“One reason?  What are the others?”

“Stick around and maybe I’ll tell you.  Someday.”

“Someday.  Great.  Way to hold onto the mystery.”

Dorian reached out and clasped John’s hand, stood, took a step back, and levered him out of the chair.  Crowding together in a perfectly empty room, Dorian tightened his grip on John’s hand.

Holding on.  Just that.  Mystery or not, what mattered was that they held on.

And it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, this is the end?? Or not?? Either way, I would be so so so happy to hear what you enjoyed about this fic. (^_^)


End file.
